


Land of All

by zamagl



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (mostly fluff though), (sort of?), Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-12-05 11:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 69,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11577471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zamagl/pseuds/zamagl
Summary: It's not uncommon for children to have imaginary friends, nor for them to outgrow them. But it is uncommon for those imaginary friends to reappear at their family's resort fifteen years later.Or, Yuuri's childhood was less fantastical than everyone thought.





	1. Fantasy Island

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fantasy Island](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmkC0OKN2fQ)

Katsuki Yuuri doesn’t believe in happy endings.

He did once, when like all lonely, anxious children, his overactive imagination clung faithfully to fables and fairy tales and fantasy as immutable tenets of his life. Back then, he believed in little else more firmly.

But now he knows better.

Now Katsuki Yuuri, age 23, is returning home without a college degree, one semester shy of graduation.

He stares out the passenger seat window of Minako’s car as familiar buildings blur by. It’s been nearly four years since he’s last seen them, and he can’t determine if the twisting in his stomach signals that it’s been too long or that it’s all too early. He suspects it’s a bit of both.

Minako shouts something at the talk radio station they’ve been tuned into since leaving the airport, and Yuuri looks at her, feigning attention. His de facto wine aunt has been kind enough to refrain from asking any uncomfortable questions on their drive home, though her exuberant fanfare upon Yuuri’s arrival at the gate had nearly triggered his fight-or-flight response on the escalator.

He listens to her prattle on about things that are mostly insignificant and leans back into his seat, tucking his chin further into the collar of his jacket. The air is crisp, and gray clouds blanket the sky for as far as Yuuri can see. It will get colder - and grayer, too. Winters are long in Hasetsu, and this one is only just beginning. But it makes little difference to him. Yuuri’s longest and harshest winter yet began in Detroit.

Minako pulls into the driveway of Yu-topia Katsuki and the two of them slip out of the car. The door shuts with a gentle thud behind Yuuri as his gaze hovers on the facade of the resort. _Home._ His stomach twists again. He hadn’t expected to return so soon. But then again, he hadn’t expected that his childhood dog would suddenly die an ocean away from his school, or that his anxiety would subsequently skyrocket, or that the academic pressure of senior year would suddenly upgrade from stressful to suffocating. He hadn’t expected that at the desperate behest of his family, friends, and school counselor, he would delay his final semester. But here he is now.

“Yuuri! I’m not carrying your things in myself!”

He turns to face the car. Minako’s already unloaded his luggage from the trunk. He knows she’s strong--decades as a professional dancer earned her muscles that she’s maintained even into middle-age--but still, he feels guilty for dallying while she does all the work. He offers a quiet thanks as he grabs his rolling suitcase and backpack, and trails after Minako as she saunters up to the entrance of the resort. Without warning, she swings the door wide open.

“Guess who’s home!” she broadcasts to the entire lobby. Yuuri wants to melt into his shoes.

The announcement draws a few curious gazes that quickly drift elsewhere when they find nothing interesting - just a baggy-eyed college student who hasn’t changed clothes in twenty-four hours. But one wide pair of eyes remains locked on Yuuri, the same warm brown hue as his own. Across the lobby, Katsuki Hiroko twists indecisively, trying to find a place to rest the linens in her arms. Apparently at a loss, she settles for dumping them unceremoniously on the floor.

In seconds, her arms have captured Yuuri, pulling him tightly into her embrace. After the initial shock, he relaxes into his mother’s hug, his nose pressing into the crown of her head. Her hair smells like the same shampoo she’s used since before he was born. Maybe it still feels too early for him to be home, but this feels like a long time coming.

Hiroko pulls away, her hands remaining firmly on Yuuri’s elbows. Her smile is bright and wide as she appraises him, as if he’s a dream come to life. She shakes her head, smile never wavering.

“Somehow you’re more handsome each time you come home,” she gushes. Yuuri, ever bashful, instinctively ducks his head. Hiroko lifts it back up until his eyes meet hers again. “I am so happy you came home, my son.” This time, Yuuri offers a half-smile back. It’s weak, but the half he can muster is genuine.

Hiroko takes him by the wrist and leads him through the lobby, forcing Yuuri to maneuver his oversized suitcase between guests and tables. “Come, let’s find your father and sister,” she says. “They’re so excited to see you again. And Minako, thank you so much for bringing him back! Stay for dinner, okay? We’ll be having katsudon to celebrate.”

Toshiya and Mari greet him as Yuuri would expect, with his father full of good cheer and bad jokes, and his sister exuding only casual indifference, as if he’d been gone for no more than a week. It’s comforting in its own way. He doesn’t want this to be a big deal. In fact, he’d really rather this not be happening at all, but since it is, he’d prefer it to be low-key.

And so the days pass in a low-key way, marked by unwilled early mornings, the echo of chatter at family meals, and the routine buzzes of his phone from the same persistent contact.

“Yuuri, how are you doing today?” they read. “Tfw when my new roommate leaves his dirty dishes in the sink for three days. I miss my old roommate ;____;” “LOOKIT THE HAMMIES” “Beautiful sunset over the quad tonight!” “How’s Hasetsu? How psyched is your family now that you’re back?” “YUURI DID YOU SEE MY PICTURE OF THE HAMMIES??”

Yuuri replies with variants of the same message: “I’m doing well, thanks! The hamsters look fabulous as always.”

He’s not doing well at all, actually. He’d thought that visiting Vicchan’s shrine on his first night home might offer some resolution, but instead it has only reminded him of how he’d had his nose buried in a textbook when his childhood dog, his _Vicchan_ , had needed him most. But pained as the thought is, he’s not going to share it with Phichit. In fact, pained as it is, that’s _exactly_ why he’s not going to share it with his college roommate-turned-best friend. Phichit doesn’t need that burden. He’s out there dealing with his own problems just like everyone else, and he’s managing them and carrying on with his life, just like everyone else. He doesn’t need Yuuri dragging him down.

“But you’re my favorite roommate, Yuuri!”

The text startles Yuuri when it comes through sometime around sunrise. He’s been awake since four a.m., but has spent the following two hours lying prone on his bed, gaze unfocused on the ceiling. And while that’s been a truly fulfilling and invigorating experience, maybe it was about time something else snapped his attention.

He reaches for his phone, looks over the message, and types his own in reply: “You’re just going to have to learn how to get along with this one.”

The response comes immediately as a string of despairing emojis.

Yuuri swings his legs over the edge of his bed and sits for a moment longer, considering the large, partially-unpacked suitcase he’s been living out of since he arrived home. It’s probably time he organized his room a bit. He’s here for the foreseeable future; he might as well accept that. Besides, his counselor had suggested planning one productive task to do each day, and right now, cleaning his room seems like a good option.

Yuuri climbs out of bed and completely unzips his suitcase, rolled-up shirts and pants and socks tumbling onto the floor. He picks them up and begins to place them in their rightful locations. His room hasn’t changed at all since he left four years ago. It’s still mostly bare, with the exception of some skating memorabilia gracing the walls. Four years ago, a bright-eyed Yuuri had marched out of this room with a suitcase in his hand, ready to set out into the world. He’d been naïve, then, full of youthful, romantic ideas about his future. That had been a kinder time.

Now, a weary-eyed Yuuri slings several pairs of pants over his arm and opens his closet door. He hangs them up one by one, pausing only as the last pair slips out of his grip and lands at his feet. He crouches down and reaches for it. But his hand stills in the air as his eyes find a cardboard box with “Yuuri’s childhood” scrawled across the lid. He doesn’t remember _that_ being here before.

Yuuri settles fully to the floor and pulls the box closer. As he lifts the lid, a glimpse of bright white inside grabs his attention. The lid falls to the floor as Yuuri pulls out his very first pair of ice skates. They’re still shiny, and so small, and far too well made to warrant being a child’s first skates. But his parents were always enthusiastic about his endeavors, Yuuri reasons. And he’d been particularly invested in this one.

It helped that it had brought him his first friends, Yuuko and Takeshi, a lasting bond forged through their mutual love of ice skating. To no one’s surprise, the other two had married each other a couple years ago, becoming the collective Nishigoris, and now they continue their ice skating work at Ice Castle Hasetsu. Yuuri ought to visit them soon, he thinks, when he isn’t so busy avoiding everyone. And he wouldn’t mind visiting the rink, either. Skating had become a solace for young Yuuri--and young Yuuri had needed a lot of solace, so the ice rink became almost a second home. It would be good to go back.

Yuuri reaches his hand into the box again and grasps something soft. It’s an old t-shirt from Tokyo Disneyland. He had been...five, was it? Maybe six? And a child’s large, he remembers, frowning as he reads the tag. His childhood chubbiness had been the focus of many comments when he was younger, especially by his classmates. Six-year-olds are not usually unkind, but they’re rarely tacit, either. Yuuri casts the t-shirt aside.

There’s a folder pressed against the side of the box, and Yuuri finds himself drawn to the colorful pages that peek out from inside. Gingerly, he takes it and flips it open on his lap, perusing the scribbly illustrations of a six-year-old.

One page portrays a young Yuuri--at least, given the mess of dark hair and oversized glasses, he can only assume it’s him--skating on a pond with a much taller boy. Well, it could be a girl, Yuuri realizes; given the silver locks cascading down the other figure’s delicate shoulders, that probably would have been anyone else’s assumption. But inexplicable as it is, Yuuri’s subconscious is adamant that it’s a boy.

He flips back one page and his heart nearly skips a beat. There the boy is again, mouth wide and heart-shaped as he and Yuuri play with a small, curly-haired dog. It’s not Vicchan. It looks like Vicchan, but some nebulous part of Yuuri recognizes that it’s not his dog.

He turns a couple pages and there’s the boy with a flower crown. Yuuri’s fingers tremble. There’s something so maddeningly familiar about the other boy--a childhood friend, surely? Except Yuuri didn’t have any friends until Yuuko and Takeshi. Then a character from a book or movie, perhaps? No, that’s not right, either. The boy feels like he belongs more to memory than to imagination.

Yuuri riffles back to the first page; it pictures just the two of them standing side-by-side. “Yuuri,” it reads beneath the smaller child’s feet. “Viktor,” it reads beneath the feet of the silver-haired boy.

The folder slides off Yuuri’s lap and it’s only then that he realizes the cold sweat he’s broken into. His heart pounds, his brain races, the two trying to reconcile the barest traces of a memory, long-dormant neurons firing with all they have.

Yuuri grabs the folder and charges out the door of his room. Maybe his family would know. Maybe they would remember what he can’t. He tears down the staircase and nearly crashes into Mari, startling her out of a half-formed yawn.

“Yuuri?” she prompts, voice still soft from sleep. Yuuri just shows her the drawings, thrusting them in front of him at arm’s length. Mari’s eyebrows raise in surprise, then settle in understanding. “Ah.”

Whatever she was headed upstairs for, she’s either forgotten about it or decided that it pales in importance to making tea. She leads Yuuri into the resort’s empty dining room, the soft winter light just filtering through the blinds. Yuuri sits at a table as Mari boils the hot water. Normally he appreciates the solitude of early mornings at the resort, but this one feels rushed, urgent. He fidgets in his seat, trying not to sneak another look at the drawings until Mari returns.

Return she does, offering Yuuri one cup of tea and taking another for herself. She takes the opposite side of the table and her eyes flicker down to the folder, then back up to him.

“So you found that,” she observes. Her hands are folded over her cup of tea, the warm steam dancing up around them. “Mom consolidated a lot of your old stuff to a box after you left for college. I tried telling her that you wouldn’t miss that, but well, you know how nostalgic Mom gets.”

The question pressing at Yuuri’s teeth finally breaks free: “Who is this?” He pulls out one of the drawings--the only one to offer a name, “Viktor”--and holds it out. “He’s in all of these.”

“You don’t remember?” Mari raises a single eyebrow. When Yuuri doesn’t respond, she releases a small sigh. “Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. Viktor was your first friend. Imaginary, but that didn’t seem to matter to you. You loved him. Apparently he would sporadically emerge from your closet--which worried us all at first, to be honest,” she says with a shrug, one corner of her mouth upturned into a wry smile.

“But you were such a shy, anxious kid. You had so much trouble making friends at school. But when you talked about all your adventures with Viktor, you just…” she trails off, brows furrowed as she tries to find the appropriate word. “Shined.”

Mari takes a sip of tea as the steam from Yuuri’s own cup fogs up his glasses. He wipes them down with the hem of his shirt as Mari continues, “So we played along with it for a long while. You were so happy. Even if Viktor wasn’t real, how could we take that from you?” It’s a nice sentiment, but then Mari’s impassive face changes to a frown, and Yuuri’s stomach lurches.

“Except one day, you couldn’t see Viktor anymore. I... _we_ didn’t know what had happened. If someone at school had said something, or if you were growing out of it, or... _what_. But you were distraught. For weeks, nothing we did could console you. Mom and Dad took you to a therapist, who suggested that we convince you to forget Viktor entirely. So we got you a dog and...you forgot, I guess.” Her fingers dance along the rim of her teacup. “Though I always assumed that was why you gave Vicchan that name.”

Yuuri looks down at the drawing at the table, at the silver-haired boy smiling from the page. “So Viktor was...imaginary?” Something about it doesn’t sit right with Yuuri, though he can’t place why.

Mari shrugs. “Stubborn as you were about Viktor being real, you did eventually recover. You played with Vicchan, Mom signed you up for the skating lessons you’d been begging for _forever_ , and you made friends with Yuuko and Takeshi. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you have no memory of it. It was so long ago, and so much happened afterward. It was like your life was finally beginning. You didn’t need Viktor anymore.”

Much like everything else that morning, the conversation leaves Yuuri with a sick feeling. There’s something missing in Mari’s explanation--not something that she’s willingly withheld, he’s sure--like a jigsaw puzzle with a missing piece. He’s just not sure what old, moldy couch cushions that piece has fallen into--or how he might retrieve it.

He returns to his room, slipping the folder back into the box before collapsing on his bed. Well, there goes his productive morning. He curls into his sheets, thoughts swirling into an indecipherable mess. He’ll need some time to sort them. Or sleep, if he can manage it.

His phone lights up and Yuuri reaches for it. It’s another text from Phichit: “Out of my advising meeting with Prof. Cialdini! He says hi! Also, how’s your morning so far?”

Yuuri replies: “That’s nice of him. My morning’s good so far. What are you having for dinner?”

The phone drops out of his hand and onto the mattress. He flops over, ignoring the immediate buzz that follows. He wishes he could be honest with his best friend. He knows Phichit knows him better than that, but Phichit also has a thesis that he needs to complete and graduate school that he needs to apply to. He doesn’t need Yuuri’s problems, too.

Yuuri gazes at his closet door, his vision already cloudy with fatigue. He wonders if he had ever talked about those things with Viktor, imaginary as he may have been. It must have been nice. No wonder that young Yuuri, anxiety-ridden and sensitive, had grown so attached to his imaginary friend. Now adult Yuuri, still anxiety-ridden and sensitive, almost wishes he could believe in that imaginary world again.

He doesn’t fall asleep.

The rest of the day passes in a haze as Yuuri tries and fails to be helpful around the resort. He drops towels, boils water for tea and forgets to check on it, and receives an embarrassing number of supportive pats on the back from his family. Sometime that afternoon, worn down by fatigue, Yuuri returns to his bed for another nap, this one more successful than the last. When he awakes a few hours later, the sky is dark and his stomach is grumbling with a pained impatience. Yuuri vaguely remembers Hiroko nudging him awake for dinner, which he had groggily refused. Now he regrets that decision.

Still half-asleep, Yuuri blindly makes his way to the kitchen, counting his blessings when he descends the narrow steps without a stubbed toe. After a few, barely registering moments of staring into the fridge, Yuuri grabs a yogurt. He settles down on the living room sofa to eat it, wrapped in a warm, heavy blanket. As he finishes his yogurt, he briefly considers heading back upstairs, but the blanket is so toasty, and his eyelids so heavy. And sleep, scarce as it is for him these days, his very persuasive.

When he awakes this time, it’s not out of hunger so much as it is that the blanket is no longer warm enough. The house has turned frigid overnight, and Yuuri’s toes feel like they’ve hit ice as they meet the floor. He wraps the blanket around him and heads upstairs, intent on grabbing a thicker sweater. He’s so preoccupied by the cold that he almost doesn’t notice that his closet door is wide open. Almost.

It sends a shiver through his spine, one he’s not sure he can attribute to the unexpected drop in temperature.

But instead he shuts the door, as it ought to be, as it _always_ is, and heads back into the hallway, reassuring himself that a cold draft must be the culprit behind both the temperature change and the open door. Hiroko finds him in the hallway and takes the blanket, leaving Yuuri’s shoulders cold even with the new, thicker sweater.

“Good morning,” she says, folding up the blanket. “If you’re looking for something to do, the walkways around the baths could be swept.”

Maybe this could be his productive thing. Yuuri grabs a broom and wanders outside, bracing himself for the chill to come. He can’t imagine there are many people eager to bathe right now.

But he’s wrong. There’s already a man in the main bath, and the sight stops Yuuri in his tracks. He’s not conscious of the broom falling out of his hand until it clatters to the ground.

Because the man’s hair is shorter now, sure, but there’s no mistaking that silver. There’s no mistaking that against all impossibilities, this is-

“V-V-Viktor?”

Blue eyes flick up toward him, and Yuuri is struck not only by their bright hue, but by just how familiar they are.

Viktor rises in the water with all the elegance of royalty and Yuuri _remembers_. It’s a deluge of memories, warm and cold, liberating and suffocating, the final puzzle piece snapped in place.

Viktor outstretches his arm toward him. His voice is loud and exuberant, assuring Yuuri that _he_ has never forgotten, as he regards him with that heart-shaped smile.

“Yuuri!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! If you made it this far, thanks for reading! I haven't written a fanfic in like...ten years? So this is kind of new to me again.
> 
> I'm hoping to keep a fairly regular update schedule for this, but we'll see how that goes.
> 
> Anyway! You read this! That's cool! Super thanks.


	2. Land of Gathering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Land of Gathering](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEokNXNWdMQ)

15 Years Ago

The air is crisp and dry and full of promise. Midwinters sting and bite, but this is early winter, and it’s content to just nibble on fingertips. The snow is high for this time of year, but Yuuri can’t complain, even as it clings to his pants while he trudges through it. He sniffles as the wind tickles his nose.

He’s trailing after a mane of silver hair, more appropriate for an ethereal creation of winter than for a human being. To be honest, Yuuri isn’t entirely convinced that Viktor isn’t the former. While Yuuri plods through the dense snow, his stubby legs offering him no help, Viktor skips ahead like he belongs out in these snowy woods. And each time Yuuri even considers giving up, Viktor turns and flashes him that distinctive heart-shaped smile, and Yuuri’s legs and lungs find newfound strength. 

He catches his breath as they arrive at a small pond, sheltered by a cluster of trees. It’s a popular skating spot for local children, and Yuuri is pleasantly surprised to find that they’re the only ones there. Viktor presses his foot onto the pond’s icy surface, testing its strength.

“It should be okay,” he decides, pulling his foot back. He turns to face Yuuri and the shine in his eyes rivals that of the ice. “How are you doing?”

Yuuri’s still winded from their trek through the snow, but he tries to mask his labored breaths as he replies, “I’m fine.”

Viktor cracks a smile. “Good.” He pulls a large burlap bag off his shoulder and plops it in front of the younger boy. “I have something for you.” When Yuuri only stares at it, Viktor prompts, “Go ahead. Open it.”

Yuuri tentatively tugs it closer and peers in. The metallic gleam inside catches his attention in an instant, and he rushes to pull out the bag’s contents, all hesitation gone. In his hands dangle a pair of ice skates - shiny and white and _beautiful_ , just like everything associated with Viktor. For a moment, Yuuri forgets how to speak, all thoughts focused on the magnificent gift in his hands.

Viktor squats down so he’s at eye level. “Well? Do you like them?”

“I…” Yuuri looks to Viktor, then the skates, and then back to Viktor again. “They’re beautiful. But why?”

“For your birthday, of course! You’d been talking so much about how you wanted to learn to skate.”

“My birthday was two weeks ago, though.”

“I know, but I was away.”

Yuuri stares at the skates again, still shaken by disbelief. He’s not sure why he’s surprised. This sort of gift is so typically Viktor; in fact, the sheer surprise of it is so characteristic of the older boy. Since they met, the only thing Yuuri has come to expect regarding Viktor is that he _never_ knows what to expect.

He examines the ice skates; they’re nice, _too_ nice, especially for a kid who’s never skated before. He mumbles, “You don’t have to give me these.”

Viktor straightens, hands on his hips and an exaggerated pout on his face. “If you don’t want them, all you have to do is say so.”

“No! I want them!” Yuuri clutches them to his chest and Viktor gives a good-natured laugh.

“Okay, okay.”

Yuuri slips his feet into the new skates and Viktor ties them for him. He gives the laces a final tug and looks up. “They’re not too tight, are they?” he asks. Yuuri shakes his head. “Good.” Viktor slides into his own skates with ease before extending a hand toward Yuuri, who takes it as he stands up, an unfamiliar wobbliness in his legs.

Still, he declines Viktor’s offer of help as they mince toward the ice. Yuuri’s legs might be shaky, but his balance is practiced enough to manage the thin blades; he thinks he should be grateful for Minako’s ballet lessons, or else this whole endeavor might be hopeless.

Yuuri stops at the edge of the pond, biting his lip as he stares down at where the tips of his blades just scratch at the frozen surface. The ice looks shiny and hard and absolutely unforgiving toward inexperienced skaters, and Yuuri’s pounding heart is offering some very convincing arguments to turn back. Viktor hovers in front of him, looking as comfortable on the ice as an ethereal winter creation should, and bends down so their eyes meet.

“Are you nervous?” he asks. Yuuri nods. Viktor takes his hands, but doesn’t lead him onto the ice just yet. “I promise I won’t let go until you’re ready, okay?” 

Yuuri ceases worrying at his chapped bottom lip to ask, “But what if I fall?”

At this, Viktor laughs. “Oh, you’re going to fall,” he says. “It’s an unavoidable part of ice skating. But I’ll catch you when you do.” When Yuuri takes a deep breath, Viktor asks, “Ready?” Against his better judgment, Yuuri nods.

The transition from snow to slippery ice sends a jolt of fear through Yuuri, though he does his best to mask it as Viktor leads the two of them around the pond. He glides with such elegance--backwards, no less-and Yuuri watches him in awe as his own feet trail uselessly beneath him.

Viktor instructs him on how to push and glide, and though Yuuri’s feet are clumsy and uncertain, Viktor’s good to his promise, his mittened hands still holding on firmly to Yuuri’s.  A small gust of wind blows the snow off some nearby branches, a dusting of it settling in the boys’ hair. A strand of silver falls into Viktor’s face and he blows at it to no avail.

“Is it really like this all the time where you’re from?” Yuuri asks, his footing already feeling more confident.

“Most of the time,” Viktor confirms. “It’s called the Land of Ice and Snow for a reason, after all.”

A dreamy smile spreads across Yuuri’s face as he imagines a place where every day is like this one. “I wish I could live there,” he says.

“Oh, but your land is so wonderful,” Viktor gushes, his own smile drawn wide. “You have _summer._ What I would give for a warm day in the sun! And you have swimming, too - you’ll take me to the beach once it gets warm enough, won’t you?” Yuuri nods, trying to hold back his laughter as Viktor enthuses over the things he’s always taken for granted. Viktor’s voice softens, his eyelids fluttering shut as he finishes, “And freedom. You have that, too.”

“Freedom?” Yuuri asks, his eyebrows knitting together. “But you’re a prince! You can do whatever you want!”

Viktor gives a half-fledged smile. “Ah. It doesn’t quite work that way, Yuuri.” Yuuri nearly asks him to elaborate, but then Viktor tells him, “Lean to the left a little.” Yuuri complies, and they make a sharp turn, snow flying from their blades. Yuuri laughs at the thrill and Viktor grins. “Having fun?” he asks. Yuuri nods.

He wishes Viktor could stay here forever, but that’s too forward to say aloud, so he tells him instead, “I might have summer and swimming here, but I’d like some friends who live on this side of the portal, too. Or at least some classmates who don’t make fun of my weight.” He casts his eyes to the blades for only as long as it takes to start losing balance, and then they’re back on Viktor.

“One day, Yuuri, you’ll have all sorts of friends,” Viktor says. “I’m sure of that.” He glances down at Yuuri’s skates and adds, “Your footwork is very impressive. I think you’re probably ready to try skating on your own. What do you think?”

Yuuri’s hands instinctively grip Viktor’s more tightly. “I…” he trails off, torn between his fear of falling and his fear of disappointing Viktor.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel ready,” Viktor says, as if reading his thoughts. “There’s no rush. I promise I won’t let go until you say it’s okay.”

Yuuri’s shoulder blades pinch together. Summoning up his courage, he gives a stilted, “It’s okay.”

Viktor’s gaze is appraising. “Are you sure?”

Yuuri responds with a weak nod. When Viktor’s fingers slip away from his, it feels like losing a lifeline. He resists the urge to reach out for him again, only because he knows the movement will make him lose his balance. He hovers on the ice for a couple seconds, still as a rabbit listening for danger.

“Keep your arms out, just like you’ve been doing,” Viktor reminds him, just a couple feet away. Even that feels like too great a distance. “Make sure your knees are bent and your back is straight. Chest up.” Yuuri tries to follow Viktor’s instructions, uncertain that he’s doing any of it correctly. “Also, don’t forget to breathe!”

Viktor’s still skating just out of arm’s reach, and Yuuri can’t help but wonder if it’s intentional, a challenge of sorts. Well, nervous as he might be, Yuuri’s rarely one to back down from a challenge. Twisting his left skate slightly outward like Viktor had shown him, he makes a small push on the ice. It barely takes him anywhere, but going by Viktor’s reaction, it could have been a triple salchow.

“Great, Yuuri!” he cheers, and Yuuri would do anything to keep that heart-shaped smile on his face.

So he makes another push. And another. And then so on, until he’s skating semi-comfortably across the pond, always just a couple feet behind Viktor. Even with this distance between the two of them, Yuuri can’t fight the grin on his face. For years, he’s watched other children skate and play on this pond, but his shyness has always kept him from joining them. But now he’s here, and Viktor’s here, and Yuuri thinks that maybe he understands why Viktor had spoken so longingly of freedom. It’s here, in these skates, on this ice; surely Viktor must feel it, too.

They near the edge of the pond, and while Viktor curves easily along it, Yuuri realizes suddenly that Viktor hasn’t taught him how to stop yet. Desperately, he tries for a turn, leaning inward like he and Viktor had before, but he overcompensates and loses his balance, his hands and knees plummeting toward the unyielding ice until-

A hand catches the crook of his elbow, swinging him back around until he’s standing upright. Sort of. His knees are still bent, his feet angled in different directions, but the point is that he’s standing.

“Are you okay?” asks the concerned voice beside him.

Yuuri looks up to meet a pair of wide blue eyes. He nods. “I’m fine. You caught me in time.” He straightens his back as confidence bubbles within him once again and cracks a smile. “Do you think you’ll be able to do it again?” Without further warning, he pushes off of Viktor and starts in a straight line back across the pond. He can hear Viktor’s gentle laugh behind him, tinged with surprise.

“Always, Yuuri.”

* * *

A lifetime at the onsen has largely desensitized Yuuri to nudity, so it surprises him when his hands instinctively fly to his eyes, shielding them from Viktor’s bare form. He’s especially surprised, considering it’s _Viktor_ , of all people. Viktor, his childhood friend-turned-memory; Viktor, who gave him his first pair of skates; Viktor, who has definitely gotten _taller_ , though Yuuri’s not sure how. As children, Viktor had always looked so impossibly tall to him, just another facet of the older boy that Yuuri could never hope to match.

Still peering through his fingers, Yuuri stutters, “B-but why--no, _how?_ ”

“I’m not sure, but it’s a miracle, isn’t it?” Viktor replies, beaming. Yuuri shuffles along the walkway toward the towel rack, a challenge considering his vision is still mostly obscured. Viktor continues, “It’s been so long--fifteen years, I think? I’d given up all hope the portal would even open again, but now I’m here, Yuuri! And...so are you.”

His lips are still curved into that unshakable smile as Yuuri hands him a towel. “Ah, thank you, Yuuri,” he says, draping the towel over his shoulders. Yuuri suppresses a groan.

“Why don’t we discuss this inside?” Yuuri suggests, and at this, Viktor nods and finally ties the towel around his waist. To Yuuri’s surprise, Viktor is the one who leads them into the house, navigating the narrow corridors like fifteen years haven’t passed since he’s last been there.

“I can’t believe how tall you are now!” he effuses, shooting bright-eyed glances over his shoulder every couple seconds. “I mean, I guess I should have expected that you had grown, but wow! You look so different now. How old are you now--let’s see, fifteen years, so 23, right? Wow.”

They reach Yuuri’s room at last, thankfully under the radar of Yuuri’s family, and Viktor chatters on, “I recognized your room immediately. You weren’t there, so I decided to wait in one of the baths!” He gestures to the closet and explains, “I came in through the closet, just like we always used to. I opened the door to my armoire and the back wall was just slightly blurred, like the portal had come back. Remember?” Yuuri vaguely remembers the portal that connected their worlds, though he can’t recall anything specific about it. He swings the closet door open. The sight does nothing to jog his memory; the back wall looks solid enough, and it echoes just like wood when Yuuri raps his knuckles against it.

“I think the portal closed once I came through it,” Viktor says. “For the first time in fifteen years, it opens, but only for a few seconds? I can’t make sense of it.”

Neither can Yuuri. He also can’t make sense of how Viktor appears so _calm_ about the whole thing, while Yuuri’s heart feels ready to pound out of his chest. This should be impossible--Viktor, the portal, all of it; but now Viktor’s here, and Yuuri’s not sure how to interpret this childhood fantasy-turned-reality.

Viktor takes his forearm and pulls the two of them down to the floor, something Yuuri allows only because he’s still too stunned to react. Sitting across from him, Viktor says, “But Yuuri, while that portal is closed, why don’t we catch up? I want to learn everything about you--about your life now! I must have missed so much. And I…” His mouth breaks into an ebullient smile, his eyes shining. “I can’t believe it’s really you. Wow. I was so afraid this day would never come. But it has and you’re _here._ ”

Viktor finally pauses, and Yuuri tries for a response: “I-”

His mouth freezes, fully agape, and he readjusts, “I need to excuse myself. Just a moment, please.” And then he scrambles out of the room before Viktor can get another word in.

He paces the length of the hallway several times, trying to wrap his brain around all of this. Two days ago, Yuuri hadn’t even remembered Viktor. A day ago, he had rediscovered the illustrations, as well as the truth of his childhood imaginary friend. And _now,_ he’s grappling with the fact that said imaginary friend is not only real, but also here in Yuuri’s home, and has no way of getting back to his own world. How is he going to explain this to his family? He can barely explain it to himself.

Yuuri doesn’t fully register that he’s on the floor until Viktor slides the door open above him. “Yuuri, I was wondering if I might have-” He peers down at him. “Why are you on the floor? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri mumbles, making no effort to get up. “It’s relaxing. I think. I’m not sure.”

“Oh.” Viktor appears to consider this for a moment, then asks, “Well, if it’s not too much trouble, could you fetch me something to wear once you’re done relaxing? I looked through your closet, but I suspect most of your clothes won’t fit me.”

“Sure,” Yuuri agrees, finally pushing himself off the floor. Viktor’s arrival might have been a shock, but still, it’s only right that Yuuri accommodates him. Viktor’s the one stranded here, after all. “Of course. I’ll get you one of the guest yukatas.”

He returns a minute later and waits in the hallway as Viktor dresses. Viktor quickly reemerges from the bedroom, hand patting his stomach. “Yuuri,” he says, almost singing the name. “I’m sorry to keep asking so much of you, but do you have any food? I haven’t eaten since last night.”

Yuuri leads him to the kitchen, already apologizing, “I’m not sure what kind of food you usually eat, so sorry if there’s nothing you like.”

“I’m sure I’ll like whatever you give me, Yuuri.”

A memory hits Yuuri: “Oh, you used to have those little pastries in the kitchens! They were like buns, I think? We should have something like that in the refrigerator.”

Viktor assures him again, “I’m not a picky eater. And I’m sure your family’s food is all delicious, anyw-”

They stop as they enter the kitchen, already occupied by Yuuri’s entire family. Well, this is just about the worst thing that could happen, Yuuri thinks. Then he corrects himself, noting that at least Viktor’s actually wearing clothes now.

“Oh?” Hiroko asks, her smile already bright. “Who’s this?”

“This is...ah, a college friend,” Yuuri replies. He exchanges a look with Viktor, whose expression transforms from wrinkled brow and pouted lips into wide eyes and a smile to match, as if he’s thought the story over and happily accepted it. Yuuri hesitates before dropping the next bit of information: “His name is Viktor.” Despite his best efforts to sound nonchalant, the mention of Viktor’s name earns a raised eyebrow from Mari. Yuuri silently begs that she won’t bring it up here, that she won’t make this moment even more uncomfortable.

It turns out that there’s no reason to worry, as Viktor makes it uncomfortable in an entirely different way.

“My lady,” he says, taking Hiroko’s hand and bending to kiss it. He does the same to Mari before anyone has a chance to react. Then he turns to Toshiya, bows deeply, and offers a respectful, “Sir.” For once, even Toshiya seems too stunned to crack a bad joke. Yuuri, for his part, finds that collapsing to the floor is looking like an increasingly favorable option. Viktor straightens, facing Yuuri’s family. “Thank you for welcoming me into your lovely home.”

Yuuri’s saved by his mother’s susceptibility to charm. “Oh, it’s nothing!” she says, and beside her, Toshiya’s expression returns to its usual, easy joviality. Mari, for her part, still looks unswayed. “It’s lovely to have you. Where are you visiting from?”

“I hail from the Land of Ice-”

“RUSSIA,” Yuuri interrupts. “He’s from Russia.”

A look of surprise crosses Viktor’s face before he winks at Yuuri, clearly thrilled to be part of this surreptitious plan. Yuuri doesn’t think Mari’s missed it. His parents have, though, and Hiroko is already preparing to indulge their guest. “Are you hungry, Viktor?” she asks. “We can prepare you something to eat.”

“That’s very kind of you,” he replies. “I’d like to try...what was it, Yuuri? Your favorite dish? Kat-, no, kas-?”

“Katsudon?” Hiroko offers.

Viktor snaps his fingers. “That was it!”

“Mom, you can’t make katsudon right now,” Yuuri insists. Of course Viktor would choose such a ridiculous dish for eleven in the morning.

“Nonsense.” She’s already assembling the ingredients from the cabinets, standing on the tips of her toes to reach them. “It’s slow today because of the snow, and none of us have eaten lunch yet. I’ll prepare a batch for all of us.”

Well, Yuuri hadn’t planned on a family meal when Viktor asked for something to eat, but apparently that’s what’s happening now. If he’s lucky, he’ll get through this without winding up on the floor, but then again, luck hasn’t really been swinging in Yuuri’s favor for the past twenty-three years.

He barely touches his katsudon--a first for him--as the family eats their early lunch together. Mari and Toshiya duck out early to return to work, though not before Mari casts Yuuri another suspicious look. He diverts his gaze, keeping quiet as he has all through lunch, save for the times that he had to stop Viktor from saying something profoundly stupid.

“How long are you planning on staying?” Hiroko asks Viktor as she takes his bowl, refusing his help with the dishes when he offers.

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” Viktor says. “I’ve been having some trouble getting home.”

“Well, you’re free to stay as long as you need to,” Hiroko says. “We can set up the guest bedroom for you. It’s a little small, but it’s comfortable enough.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will be more than enough.” Viktor’s eyes shine with gratitude, and Yuuri wonders if Viktor’s never had to temper his facial expressions or if he’s just especially terrible at it. “Thank you for your generosity!”

After Hiroko leaves, Viktor turns his attention to Yuuri. Well, that’s not quite accurate. While Viktor’s been polite enough to engage with Yuuri’s family for most of lunch, Yuuri didn’t miss his gaze slipping back to him during every pause in the conversation. He hasn’t turned his attention back to Yuuri only now; he’s just stopped masking it.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” he observes, chin propped in his hand. “Is something the matter?”

“I’m just…” Thinking. Worrying. Terrified. That’s not what Viktor either wants or needs to hear, nor what Yuuri wants or needs to say. “Tired,” he says.

“Hm.” Viktor nods. “Me too.” He stretches and settles into the pillows beside the table. “Is it alright if I rest here?”

Even if it weren’t, Yuuri suspects his answer wouldn’t matter. Viktor’s eyes are shut within moments, his breathing turning soft and steady. His long, elegant frame is curled cozily into the pillows, strands of silver hair falling over his eyelids. Even asleep, he looks like an ethereal winter creation, albeit out of place in Yuuri’s house, like a dream creature that stumbled into reality.

Mari reenters the kitchen to grab a glass of water. She doesn’t stop for long, only passing through with a drawled out, “This is weird, little brother.” Despite her facial expressions earlier, the comment doesn’t sound suspicious, only like an observation.

Yuuri can’t argue with that.

 

Yuuri’s knelt in front of the closet, staring at the back wall with an increasingly furrowed brow, when his bedroom door opens. He tears his attention away from the closet at last, tension draining from his forehead, and stands up to face Viktor.

“You’re looking for the portal,” Viktor says. His eyes are half-lidded, his hair still rumpled, as if he’s only just awoken from his nap.

Yuuri casts a final, defeated glance toward the closet. “I just can’t figure out how you got through. Or how we’re going to get you back to your world.” 

“I’ve just arrived and you want me gone already?” Viktor asks as he plops himself down on the foot of Yuuri’s bed. His arms are crossed.

Yuuri can’t tell if he’s serious, but he jumps to reply regardless, “No! It’s not that! I just don’t understand how this works. I mean, the portal closed fifteen years ago for both of us, right?” From Yuuri’s bed, Viktor nods. “And now it just reopens and closes, with just enough time for you to come through here? Like you said, it doesn’t make any sense. And what if it takes you another fifteen years to go back home?”

Viktor shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry about it just yet, Yuuri,” he says. “It’s only been a few hours, after all. Let’s give the portal some time.” He pushes a loose lock of hair out of his eye. “In the meantime, why don’t we catch up? I still don’t know anything about you now. What have I missed?”

And Yuuri wants to tell Viktor all about his amazing, glorious adventures for the past fifteen years, but the only stories he has are neither amazing nor glorious. Instead, remembering Viktor’s utter fascination with everything in Yuuri’s world, he offers, “Why don’t I show you around? You never really got a good tour of this land before.” Yuuri’s never seen a grin so wide as the one that dawns on Viktor’s face.

Among the stops on their tour are the washing machine, microwave, and television, and Viktor finds a way to spend at least ten minutes at each one. He sits in front of the tv and all but breaks the power button, more interested in the apparent impossibility of its existence than in the bad period piece that flickers on and off at Viktor’s whim.

“Do they not have tvs in Russia?” Mari asks as she strolls through the dining room, eyebrow raised ever higher.

“Not in color,” Yuuri’s quick to reply.

It’s almost impossible to wheedle his cellphone back from Viktor after Yuuri introduces him to the device. “Is Phichit the name of your phone, Yuuri?” Viktor asks as he uses it to snap another photo of the television. Yuuri’s not sure how he stumbled upon the camera feature on his own. “It keeps asking how you are. That’s very considerate.”

All the modern technology in the Katsuki household isn’t enough to hold Viktor’s attention for more than a couple hours, though. Even as he plays with Yuuri’s cellphone, doing who knows what--Yuuri’s sure he’ll find the irreparable damage later--he asks, “When can I see the rest of your land, Yuuri? We don’t have to go far. Even seeing more of your town would be enough.”

“Tomorrow,” Yuuri says, regretting it immediately, as he knows Viktor will hold him to it. His fears are confirmed as Viktor’s eyebrows perk up, his gaze lifted from the phone screen. “I’m too tired for that today.” He stretches and stands up, reaching out his hand for the phone. Viktor hesitates for a moment before giving it back. “Why don’t we set up your room?”

His mother hadn’t exaggerated. The guest room is small by any definition--“comfortable” would be a generous descriptor for it--and Yuuri’s sure that anyone used to royal treatment would find it cramped. But Viktor is gracious as always, insisting that it’s more than enough and thanking Yuuri profusely for the accommodation.

Yuuri thinks that maybe Viktor’s changed his tune after dinner, though, as he hears a knock at his bedroom door. “Yuuri,” Viktor’s voice croons from behind it. “Can I sleep in here?”

Yuuri’s still changing into his pajamas, so keeps the the door closed. “Why? Is there a problem with your room?”

“No! It’s not that. The room is fine.” There’s a palpable pause, and Yuuri waits through it. “It’s just...I feel like we haven’t really talked. About the past fifteen years. The last time I saw you, we were both just kids. And you’re so different now, I feel like… I just want to get to know this Yuuri, because all I know is the Yuuri from fifteen years ago.”

Yuuri stands motionless in the middle of his room, unsure of how to respond. What would they even talk about? Yuuri’s failure to stay in college? His life-derailing anxiety? The fact that he completely _forgot_ about Viktor until yesterday? The only reason Viktor’s so intent on getting to know this Yuuri is because he doesn’t know what a disappointment Yuuri’s become.

But Yuuri can try to delay the inevitable, even if only for a day. He approaches the door and stops, close enough to touch it, but he makes no move to open it. He heaves a sigh, then suggests, “Why don’t we talk tomorrow, Viktor? It’s been a long day. I think it’s better if we both get some sleep.”

It’s quiet on the other side of the door for a little while, and Yuuri wonders if Viktor’s already left, but then he hears the characteristically upbeat response: “I understand! Good night, Yuuri!”

Yuuri replies softly, “Good night, Viktor.” He listens to Viktor’s footsteps retreat down the hall, then climbs into his bed, burying himself in blankets.

For all his talk of being tired, Yuuri hardly sleeps a wink that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not featured: Viktor discovering the internet and playing Keyboard Cat on loop for three hours.
> 
> Thanks so much to all of you who left such kind comments and kudos on the previous chapter! You guys are awesome. :)


	3. Raconte-moi une histoire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Raconte-moi une histoire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Ep4B1LuRnE)

Yuuri’s bedroom door slams shut as quickly as it opened. The breeze filters into the normally stuffy room through an open window, ruffling the pile of construction paper on his desk. It’s an unseasonably warm April afternoon, and while most kids are probably outside enjoying it, Yuuri is spending it inside in an effort to avoid all of them. His backpack slides from his shoulders to the floor with only a light thump; a six-year-old’s backpack only weighs so much.

Tears press at his eyes and Yuuri tries to blink them back, though there’s no one here to judge him for it now. He’s been holding them in since he left school and now they’re fighting with a vengeance. But true to form, when Yuuri’s parents asked him about his first day of school, bright smiles on their faces, he had told them about how great it was. Of course, he’d skipped over the part where he stumbled over his own name as he nervously introduced himself to the class, and how all his classmates had laughed at his blunder, and how he sat alone for the rest of the day and probably won’t have any friends ever.

But his parents had been excited for _weeks_ , thrilled that their shy child was making his first big step into the world, so how could Yuuri disappoint them? If they overhear him crying now, though, it’s going to ruin everything.

Yuuri’s blurry gaze settles on the closet.

He slides the door open and crawls in, hoping the extra wall will be enough to muffle his sobs. He crouches in the cramped darkness, heaving with rapid breaths, tears turning into stains on his shirt. He’d been so excited for today. His parents had assured him that he’d make friends, and he’d been foolish enough to believe them, foolish enough to hope that someone he wasn’t related to might finally like him. But the immutable fact of his existence is that he’s Yuuri--shy, anxious, inherently unlikable Yuuri--so of course that could never happen.

When he lifts his head to wipe at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve, the back wall of the closet catches his attention. There’s nothing _obviously_ attention-grabbing about it, in the sense that Yuuri can’t pinpoint exactly what’s different. There’s just something not quite right about it, a nebulous quality that suggests, somehow, that the back wall isn’t a back wall after all. That maybe the closet doesn’t quite end there.

Yuuri outstretches his hand toward the wall, meaning to trace his fingers along it. But where they should meet wood, they instead disappear, vanishing into the wall like they would into a thick fog. Yuuri snaps his hand back to his chest. He examines it, relieved to find that his fingers are all still there, no different than they’d be if he hadn’t just stuck them into the impossible quasi-wall at the back of his closet.

Feeling bold, Yuuri reaches his arm through again, marveling at how he can still feel his fingers press against one another, even in that invisible space beyond. And maybe it’s because he’s already faced his worst fear today--or maybe because he’s spent the past ten minutes crying--but Yuuri’s ever-present anxiety is muted enough for him to launch his whole body through the wall.

He’s immediately smothered by...linens? Or undershirts, Yuuri determines, as his hands feel their way around the dark space. They dangle from countless hangers on either side of Yuuri, the metal hooks jingling as he stands up. He extends his hand, trying to find something other than fabric, and his palm smacks against a flat, wooden surface. He’s just about to press on it when it opens of its own accord, light streaming in and filling the tight space.

It wasn’t really of its own accord, Yuuri realizes, as his vision readjusts to the brightness. There’s a boy standing before him, haloed in the yellow light, sporting what Yuuri’s sure is a dumbfounded expression to mirror his own. He’s taller than Yuuri, with long, silver hair and brilliant blue eyes, intensified by the red rims around them.

Yuuri’s first thought is that this can’t possibly be a good situation. His second thought is that this boy is possibly the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.

His third thought, questionably delayed, is to escape. Yuuri twirls on his heels, ready to scramble back to the safety of his own closet, when a hand falls on his shoulder. It doesn’t grab, though--only rests.

“Wait!”

Yuuri waits. He turns, gaze hovering on the other boy.

“Please, wait.” The boy’s voice is softer now. He withdraws his hand. “I won’t hurt you, I promise. I’d just like to know how you got in here.”

Thing is, Yuuri would really like to answer the question, but vocal communication just doesn’t seem to be his thing today. He resorts to staring blankly ahead.

The boy tries again, “Maybe I should introduce myself.” He crouches down until he’s at eye-level with Yuuri. “My name’s Viktor. What’s yours?”

It takes substantial effort, but finally Yuuri’s able to mete out a small, “Yu-Yuuri.”

“Yuuri?” Viktor smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s a nice name. Are you lost, Yuuri?”

Yuuri shakes his head.

“No? Do you know where your family is?” Yuuri nods and points through the undershirts, in the direction of his own closet. At this, the other boy’s eyebrows shoot up. “They’re in...there?” Yuuri nods again. Viktor looks to him, then to the back wall of this closet. “May I step inside?” he asks. Yuuri shuffles aside to make room.

Viktor observes the wall for a moment before his eyebrows furrow, as if he’s noticed the same indescribable property that Yuuri did. Without any of Yuuri’s hesitance, he sticks his hand in. Eyes wide, he looks back to Yuuri. “You came through here?”

When Yuuri nods, the boy slowly extracts his hand from the wall, marveling at its wholeness much like Yuuri had. “Incredible,” he breathes out, flexing his fingers. “I never realized there was another way out.”

* * *

 

“You want to go out today? But it’s so cold.” Yuuri peers over at the frosted dining room window, the ground outside glistening with a fresh dusting of snow. He takes a sip of his tea, revelling in the burst of warmth.

Across the table, Viktor picks at the last of his meal. He’d requested a traditional Japanese breakfast; Yuuri had worried it wouldn’t be to his taste, but Viktor evidently has a wider palate than Yuuri gave him credit for.

“But there’s so much I want to see!” Viktor insists. He sets the chopsticks aside. “I want to see your town! Your ocean! That ninja castle!”

Yuuri raises his eyebrows. “How do you know about that? Do you even know what ninjas _are?_ ”

“I read the tourism pamphlet at the front desk.” Viktor dabs at his mouth with the napkin before folding it back onto the table, a paragon of grace even in a world that doesn’t expect him to be. “Ninjas sound amazing! Can’t we at least go there?”

On the one hand, it’s absolutely frigid outside and Yuuri would rather not endure that. But on the other hand, the alternative to the ninja castle is keeping Viktor cooped up in the onsen all day, and he’d _really_ rather not endure that. He sighs. “Okay. We’ll head out after breakfast.”

Viktor’s brilliant eyes widen and he pushes his dishes to the middle of the table. “Great!” he says, that heart-shaped smile already dominating his face.

If there was any question of whether the ninja castle would live up to Viktor’s expectations, it’s answered immediately upon their arrival there.

“Amazing!” Viktor exclaims. He turns his intense gaze to Yuuri, who almost laughs at how genuine it is. Despite his upbringing, Viktor’s never been too proud to mask his enthusiasm. It’s equal parts exhausting and refreshing. Viktor extends his open hand. “Yuuri, could you please give me Phichit?”

“What? I don’t- Oh.” Yuuri digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone, which Viktor eagerly accepts. He opens the camera and snaps photo after photo without even changing perspective.

“I’m surprised you figured out the phone so quickly,” Yuuri observes. “It took my parents forever to learn how to use emojis.”

“Emojis?”

Viktor takes a couple steps to the left and unleashes another rapid fire of camera clicks. Second-thinking his mention of the emojis, Yuuri amends, “Never mind.”

The clicking ceases as Viktor stares at the phone display, admiring the photos he’s just taken. “I like making pictures,” he says.

“I noticed.” Viktor’s almost worse than Phichit in that regard. Almost. Yuuri’s pretty sure Phichit documented nearly every hour of their time at college, a stark reminder that Yuuri should never get on his former roommate’s bad side. A thought occurs to Yuuri: “I could print your photos out for you, if you’d like.” When Viktor’s forehead wrinkles with confusion, Yuuri clarifies, “Take them out of the phone and put them on paper. That way you can take them with you when you leave.”

“Oh.” Viktor’s quiet for a moment, and it throws Yuuri. He’d expected Viktor to be immediately responsive to the idea. Viktor throws him a smile anyway, though it’s thin. “Thanks, Yuuri! That’s kind of you.”

Yuuri’s not sure what to make of Viktor’s wavering response. But then, he’s not sure what to make of a lot of things, not least of which is that his once-forgotten imaginary friend is real, here, and calling his phone “Phichit.”

* * *

 

“What are you going to call her?” Yuuri gasps out between giggles. He’s seated on the floor of Viktor’s room, suffering the wrath of a bouncy, curly-haired puppy. She places her paws on his chest and Yuuri allows her to knock him flat, surrendering to his fate of death-by-a-thousand-puppy-kisses.

“Her name is Makkachin,” Viktor says, sitting at the edge of his bed, a serene smile gracing his face. “My parents gave her to me a couple days ago. She’s my birthday present.”

“Huh?” Yuuri stops laughing and sits up, holding a squirming Makkachin in his arms. “I didn’t know it was your birthday. I would have gotten you a present.” Makkachin wiggles out of his grasp and rushes over to Viktor, attacking his feet.

“I didn’t mention it.” When Makkachin tugs on the ankles of Viktor’s pants, he chides, “Makkachin, no.” But the demands of a prince mean nothing to an eight-week-old puppy. Sporting an exhausted smile, Viktor settles to the floor and allows Makkachin to nip playfully at his fingertips.

“Besides,” he adds, “I don’t find much excitement in my birthday. Every year, it’s the same thing - some stuffy event attended by people I don’t know - always nobility, usually old. And I have to sit there for hours and pretend to be grateful for these ostentatious gifts that are really meant to impress my parents. I don’t think these people could pick out a present for a child if their lives depended on it.” He frowns. “I mean, I received _three_ tea sets this year. What am I going to do with three tea sets? Have a tea party with Mila and Georgi, I suppose, but that sounds more like a punishment than a gift.”

He’s withdrawn his hand from Makkachin’s jaws, which is a mistake on his part, as Makkachin identifies a more desirable chew toy: Viktor’s long hair. His head cranes back as she tugs at a few strands, and instead of scolding her, he only chuckles. “ _You_ , little pup, are almost a punishment, too.” Makkachin pulls harder and Viktor collapses onto his back, overtaken by laughter as she dives for his face, licking it relentlessly. “Oh no! I’ve been felled by a terrible beast! Yuuri - Yuuri, you’ll have to deliver the dreadful news to my parents; tell them that their dynasty has come to a tragic and gruesome end!”

Yuuri’s as helpless as Viktor, his giggling rendering him into stitches on the floor. There’s a brief pause in Viktor’s laughter as he coughs, then spits. “Ugh, Makkachin, not in the mouth.”

Yuuri returns to his own room as a boy on a mission. He clambers onto his desk chair and reaches for a package of construction paper on the corner of the desk. At seven years old, he’s still a little short for the desk, but his parents assure him he’ll grow into it. He grabs a box of colored pencils and picks out the first one that catches his eye.

This is going to be the greatest birthday present Viktor’s ever received, Yuuri resolves. The first speck of blue hits the paper.

* * *

 

Blue sky breaks through Hasetsu’s thick clouds at last, sunlight streaking across the ocean’s choppy surface. The snow has long since melted, leaving the beach sand firm and cold against Yuuri’s hands. He digs his fingers into it, just cracking the packed surface.

“It’s funny,” Viktor says from beside him. His eyes are trained on the horizon, his hands tracing designs in the sand as if they had a mind of their own. “I thought everything about your world was so different from mine. But you have seagulls, too. Just like home.”

“Seagulls are the same everywhere,” Yuuri supposes.

Viktor shrugs. He draws his attention away from the birds dotting the sky and his hands cease their doodling. “Your world is so magnificent. I can’t imagine why you used to be so fascinated by mine.”

Primarily because Viktor lived there, Yuuri thinks, but he keeps it to himself. He supplies instead, “Like you said, it was so different from mine. I never really fit in here. I thought I could in yours.”

“You seem like you fit in well now,” Viktor says, and it’s so absurd that Yuuri almost forgets to stifle his laugh. Viktor’s fingers return to their sand-tracing, his gaze following them. His voice softens: “I must have missed so much.”

“You didn’t, really,” Yuuri assures him. He knows it’s not enough, so he offers the bare minimum: “I grew up, I went to college, and now I’m back home. That’s it.” Viktor’s eyes widen at the mention of college, clinging onto this tiny piece of information, but before he can launch into a thousand questions about it, Yuuri turns it back to Viktor: “What about you? What’s happened in your life over the past fifteen years?”

“Oh. Well, I’m still the prince,” Viktor says, his voice lighter than before. “Despite that, the kingdom still stands. Oh, and Makkachin’s still alive!”

“Makkachin’s still alive?” Yuuri’s mouth opens to a surprised smile. “But how? She must be so old now.”

“She’s slowed down, sure. But the veterinarian says she’s in remarkable shape for a dog her age. And she’s still just as untrainable as ever. You remember how she was as a puppy.”

Yuuri grins. “I’m sure she’s the castle’s resident terror.”

“Oh no, that’s me. But she’s a close second. And the _poor_ staff.” Viktor brings his hand to his forehead, heaving a sigh. “They had to ban her from the kitchens after just two years. When the royal family of the Land of Great Mountains visited us, the chefs prepared an abundant feast for them, only to find an hour before the meal that Makkachin had eaten the entire appetizer course. Of course, _I_ was the one who landed in trouble for that one.”

Yuuri’s sides ache from laughter. He’s conscious of how he hasn’t felt that welcome pain in months; he’s also conscious of how he doesn’t want it to disappear again. “That’s amazing. I’m so proud of her.”

“Yuuri!” Viktor fakes indignation and Yuuri doubles over again, a different strain of tears forming in his eyes. Viktor’s grin hovers on him, and for once, instead of shying away, Yuuri matches it. “I wish she could see you,” Viktor says. “She always loved you. And she’d love to run along this beach, too, and get her paws in the water. As would I. The weather never gets warm enough back home.”

Yuuri wipes his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s too cold right now, anyway.”

“Then you’ll just have to take me swimming when it’s warm enough,” Viktor decides, and Yuuri knows better than to mention that it won’t be warm enough for months still. “Just like you promised.”

* * *

 

“Do you promise, Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s fingers are happily twined in Viktor’s hair, working away at a half-finished silver braid. The two of them are situated comfortably on Viktor’s oversized bed, and Yuuri cranes around Viktor’s head to make eye contact through the gilded mirror on the wall.

“For the millionth time, Viktor, I _promise_ I will take you to the beach. _When_ it’s warm enough,” he’s shrewd enough to add. He returns to his work on the braid, just catching Viktor’s eyelids close in the mirror.

The older boy sighs. “I can’t wait. I’ve never been in warm water before. Well, unless you count the bathtub.”

“It probably won’t be as warm as you think,” Yuuri warns. It’s still the Pacific Ocean - still Hasetsu, after all. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“I won’t be disappointed,” Viktor says with a surety Yuuri can only envy.

Beside the mirror, Makkachin sniffs at a sheet of construction paper tacked to the wall. Viktor is quick to chide her: “Makkachin, _no_. Stay away from that.” In an unusual display of obedience, Makkachin trots to the opposite corner of the room, where she plops down to chew on a toy.

It’s been nearly a year, and Yuuri still can’t believe Viktor stuck his birthday card up on the wall. His family and attendants must have been perplexed to find a drawing of their prince standing beside some unknown child, but then again, maybe they didn’t find it unusual at all. Maybe Viktor surprises them as regularly as he surprises Yuuri.

“That’s the greatest birthday present I’ve ever received,” Viktor says.

Yuuri’s cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. “It’s just a card,” he mumbles.

“No. It’s a gift.”

If Viktor loves the card this much, Yuuri can’t wait for his reaction to his next birthday present. It’s just under two months away, and Yuuri has already half-completed the gift, a book of illustrations depicting their adventures together.

Yuuri finishes the braid and ties it with a small bow. Beside him rests of flower crown that Viktor had sneered at; he’d been made to wear it for a portrait sitting earlier in the day, and would have discarded it were it not for Yuuri’s delighted wonder. Yuuri picks it up and gingerly places it on Viktor’s head. When he looks in the mirror to gauge Viktor’s reaction, he finds that the older boy’s eyes are closed.

“Hm, Yuuri. Did you put that horrible flower crown on my head?”

“Yes,” Yuuri admits. “Now open your eyes.”

Viktor shakes his head, though it’s gentle enough to not budge the flower crown. “How do I look?” he asks.

Ethereal. Royal. _Like a prince_ , Yuuri wants to say, but he knows better than that. So he strips the description down to its barest truth: “Beautiful.”

Viktor’s eyes flutter open in the mirror and he beams. “Maybe you were right,” he concedes. “The flower crown isn’t _so_ bad after all. Maybe they’ll let me wear this instead of my official one. It fits me better, anyway.”

He turns to Yuuri, regarding him, and without warning, flops the crown onto Yuuri’s head. “But it suits you much better, I think.”

Yuuri blushes, awkwardly readjusting the crooked crown. He can hardly agree. The crown is so graceful, so delicate, so _beautiful_ ; it’s everything Viktor is and everything Yuuri isn’t.

Makkachin leaps onto the bed and sniffs at Yuuri’s head, intrigued by the fragrant accessory. Yuuri giggles and lifts the flower crown from his head to place it on hers. Makkachin gives a delighted yip, her tail thumping on the bed. “I think it fits her best,” Yuuri says.

Viktor grins. “I think you’re right.” He kneels on the mattress, pressing his hand to his heart as he bends into a bow. “Queen Makkachin, you grace us with your presence.”

Yuuri laughs and follows suit. “Queen Makkachin, we are but your humble servants.”

“Come, Yuuri, let us pledge our loyalty,” Viktor urges, kneeling onto one leg. Makkachin yips again, her tongue hanging sideways out of her mouth as she observes the shenanigans. “Queen Makkachin, we have heard great things of your wisdom and grace. Please allow us to faithfully serve you as you lead your vast empire. We pledge our loyalty to you forever and ever.”

It’s a struggle for Yuuri to mirror Viktor’s kneel, his shaking laughter offsetting his balance on the soft mattress. His words are choppy, squeezed out between giggles, as he repeats, “Forever and ever.”

* * *

 

Yuuri’s knelt by the closet, fingers tracing along its solid back wall. He thinks he understands what Viktor meant about the portal looking blurry, the memory of it present but vague, but there’s no sign of that blurriness now. All Yuuri can determine at this point is that the portal closed for fifteen years, and reopened for just long enough to leave Viktor stranded in this world.

Yuuri can’t understand it. He remembers locking himself in that closet for hours at a time, of sleeping there countless nights, of tearfully pleading with the portal to reopen; he remembers going to school, eating meals, watching tv, and all the while thinking of nothing but the portal and Viktor, moving through the motions of life without processing any part of it; he remembers months of falling asleep with raw, wet eyes, the closet door wide open as a desperate gesture of hope.

And all the while, the portal just waited.

There’s a knock at the door. Yuuri’s already figured who it is before he answers, “Come in!”

Viktor slides the door open, then shut, and takes a moment to observe Yuuri. “You’re studying the closet again.”

“Yes.” Yuuri heaves a sigh, and Viktor crosses the room to sit beside him. His eyes never seem to graze the closet, focused instead on Yuuri. “I just...don’t understand. Why _now?_ Why did it wait fifteen years? If it had opened earlier, I would have-” He looks at Viktor, meeting a bright gaze so familiar, he can’t believe he ever forgot it. “I might have…” he trails off.

“Things would have been different,” Viktor offers.

Yuuri’s response comes as little more than a mumble: “Yeah.”

Viktor’s attention drifts to the closet at last, hovering there for a bit before he makes a sudden reach for something in it. All too late, Yuuri realizes that it’s his memory box. “Yuuri’s childhood,” Viktor reads aloud. He looks at Yuuri and asks, “May I?” Yuuri should have known to hide the box before inviting Viktor in, but since it’s in Viktor’s hands already, he knows it would just look suspicious for him to refuse. He only nods.

Viktor removes the top and draws an audible breath. With delicate care, he lifts out Yuuri’s first pair of skates, eyes wide as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His voice is soft, a whisper: “These are…”

“The skates you gave me,” Yuuri confirms. “My very first pair.”

“They’re so small,” Viktor marvels, his gaze peeled on the shiny skates. “I’m surprised you kept them.”

“Of course I kept them.” For whatever reason, this breaks Viktor of his trance, and he turns his attention to Yuuri, brow furrowing and relaxing so subtly that Yuuri almost misses it. He daintily places the skates on the floor before reaching into the box again. Yuuri’s stomach twists; he knows what else is in the box, just as he knows he can’t change the inevitability of Viktor finding it.

And there it is, pressed between Viktor’s fingers as he withdraws it from the box: a plain folder with sheets of bright construction paper peeking out. Viktor opens the folder to the first page and then stills, so much that Yuuri’s not sure he’s breathing. Though for what it’s worth, Yuuri’s not so sure of his own breathing, either.

The first page depicts the two of them standing side-by-side, their names written beneath their feet. Viktor drags a finger along the words and then withdraws it, his hand going to his lips. It muffles his voice as he says, “It’s us.”

Yuuri nods. “There’s more.”

Viktor turns the page. The next drawing features a small Yuuri emerging from Viktor’s closet. The page flips again, revealing an illustration of the two of them playing with a small Makkachin. “What...are these?” Viktor asks as he turns another page. This one depicts them skating on the lake, Yuuri’s hands secured in Viktor’s.

“Your birthday present,” Yuuri admits, his face uncomfortably warm. “I was making a book about our time together.”

The fifth and final illustration pictures Yuuri, Viktor, and Makkachin adorned with flower crowns and bright smiles. Viktor’s hands tremble as he stares at the page; it’s not something Yuuri would ordinarily notice, but the delicate sheets of paper betray even the slightest movement. “Are you okay?” Yuuri asks.

Without a word, Viktor flips the folder closed and gingerly slides it back into the box. He looks at Yuuri for a moment, and before Yuuri can say anything, he’s enveloped in a tight hug. And uncomfortable as Yuuri normally finds strangers’ touches, Viktor _isn’t_ a stranger; this hug is familiar and warm, and Yuuri’s tempted to sink into it, though he keeps his arms pressed to his sides.

“Thank you, Yuuri,” Viktor murmurs. For a while, neither of them says anything else. When Viktor finally withdraws from the embrace, he sits back on his feet and twists his hands in his lap, glancing between Yuuri and the closet, as though he’s not sure of what to do next. He settles for returning the skates to the box, fitting on the lid, and shoving it to the back of the closet.

Viktor rises. “I ought to go to bed,” he announces, voice _almost_ not wavering. “Have a good night, Yuuri.”

Yuuri watches him cross the room. But before Viktor can leave, he says, “Wait!” Viktor’s hand stops midair, inches from the door. “I think...tomorrow, I want to take you somewhere fun. If that’s okay, I mean-”

“Of course it is!” Viktor’s beaming again, any trace of uncertainty now vanished. “I can’t wait! I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, right?”

“I-”

“Great!” He slips into the hallway, hand still on the door as he wishes Yuuri a cheerful, “Good night!”

Yuuri sighs. “Good night, Viktor.” The door slides shut.

_Bright and early tomorrow morning_ , his brain repeats back to him. He suppresses a groan. It’s already eleven p.m., and Yuuri knows he won’t be able to fall asleep for at least a couple more hours. With another sigh, he pushes himself off of the floor, already feeling tired in advance of tomorrow. Viktor might have once accused Makkachin of being both a gift and a punishment, but Yuuri’s not convinced Viktor’s any different.

He casts one more look into the closet before closing the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know the timeline of this fic means Makkachin is, like...mega-old. But I feel like if we can extend our imagination enough to accept closet portals, we can give a fictional dog a few more years on this planet.
> 
> Thanks again to everybody who left kudos and especially to those of you who left comments - I really love reading them!
> 
> Okay, plot will get moving again next chapter!


	4. Favourite Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Favourite Thing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1Wohtj2nXs)

The weather is far too brisk for a trip to the beach, yet that’s where Yuuri finds himself today. His coat is zipped up to his chin, and he keeps his hands buried deep into his pockets as another blast of wintry air rides off the waves. He’s not sure why he’s here. That is to say, he _knows_ why--a certain silver-haired prince had been particularly insistent that they come--but he’s not sure why he relented. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Viktor snapping a picture of the ocean on Yuuri’s phone, sporting a wondrous, wide-eyed expression more suited to a child than a grown man, and Yuuri thinks that he might have a clue after all. Despite himself, he feels his own smile grow.

An 8-bit rendition of an old song begins to play, a musical number from a classic film about a Thai king, and it startles Yuuri out of his reverie. He extends his arm toward Viktor, palm open. “That’s my phone. I need to answer that.”

But the phone-savvy other-worlder has already answered it for him. Before Yuuri can snatch the phone back, the screen opens to a video chat. Yuuri gulps as Phichit stares back at him, eyebrows angled, an atypical crease in his forehead. “Yuuri,” comes the flat greeting.

Viktor’s brows perk up. He remarks with a note of astonishment, “Ah! Yuuri, Phichit has a small person inside of it.”

Yuuri heaves a sigh, fully aware that he is about to endure the full wrath of Phichit Chulanont. He offers a trepid, “Hi, Phichit.”

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Phichit repeats, and Yuuri nearly winces at the tone. “What’s going on? You haven’t answered any of my texts for two days. I thought something terrible might have happened!” He pauses, and then his forehead crease dissipates as anger morphs into worry. “ _Did_ something happen?”

“No, no, nothing bad’s happened,” Yuuri’s quick to assure him. “It’s just been a busy couple of days. I’m sorry. I should have let you know everything was fine.” He can’t fault Phichit for being angry with him; his best friend had helped Yuuri through many a rough night at school, and he must have feared something awful when Yuuri had gone silent on him.

Phichit raises a single eyebrow. “Too busy to text your best friend?”

“I…” Yuuri pauses, finding himself at a loss for words. He knows he owes Phichit some sort of explanation, but the only one he has is probably beyond even Phichit’s belief. Forgoing words, he aims the phone camera at Viktor. “This is why.”

Viktor beams at the screen. “Hello, tiny man! My name is Viktor. I’m Yuuri’s college friend.”

“No, you’re not,” Yuuri and Phichit respond simultaneously, with differing levels of exasperation and confusion.

“Phichit’s _actually_ my college friend,” Yuuri explains. “He knows.” He angles the camera back to himself.

Phichit’s brow is furrowed again. “Care to explain?”

“I can’t,” Yuuri says, a contrite note in his voice. “Not yet, anyway. I’m sorry. It’s, uh...a long story.”

“But those are the best ones,” Phichit insists.

“Another time, then,” Yuuri says. Phichit grudgingly accepts it, his mouth drawing into a thin line on the screen. In an attempt to lighten the conversation, Yuuri offers, “Why don’t you fill me in on everything I’ve missed these past two days?”

Yuuri knows his best friend well. Gleefully, Phichit launches into a dramatic retelling of how Professor Cialdini had chewed out his new roommate in front of the whole class when he’d shown up tardy. “I LOVE THAT MAN SO MUCH,” Phichit declares, eyes starry. Yuuri shoots a glance toward Viktor, hoping the conversation isn’t boring him too much. But he’s not sure he’s even listening; Viktor’s gaze is concentrated on the water, his lips curved into a faint smile.

Phichit wraps up his summary of the past couple days, and Yuuri promises, “I’ll be better at keeping in touch. Sorry again for making you so worried.”

“I’m holding you to that promise.” Phichit points a finger at the screen. Then he adds, a bit louder, “And bye, fake college friend!”

Viktor’s attention immediately snaps back to the phone, and he leans closer to Yuuri to get his face in the frame, his smile broad. “Farewell, real college friend!”

Yuuri and Phichit both snicker before exchanging their own goodbyes. Yuuri ends the call, shoving his phone back into his pocket to safeguard it from Viktor.

“He seems like a good friend to you,” Viktor remarks. “I’m glad you have him in your life.”

“He’s my best friend. And a very good one, too,” Yuuri agrees. He shivers as another icy gust of wind barrels through them. “I miss him a lot.”

“Why aren’t you still in college with him?” It’s the inevitable question, the one that everyone asks. It never gets easier to answer. It never gets easier for Yuuri to admit his failures, especially to the people who believed in him.

He diverts his gaze to the waves, watching as they break and crash onto the shore. “That’s also a long story.”

“Oh. Okay,” Viktor says, and Yuuri’s grateful that he doesn’t push. “If you ever feel ready to talk about it, I hope you know that I’m always willing to listen. But it’s okay if you never feel ready, too.”

“Thank you, Viktor.” Yuuri doesn’t elaborate further, doesn’t promise to divulge everything at a later time, because for once, he doesn’t feel like he’s expected to; he just casts his gaze back over the ocean, finding comfort in both the steady motion of the waves and in the steady presence beside him. A couple minutes pass in silence, neither of them pressured to fill it with empty, forced words. For the past four years, Yuuri’s been vomiting out meaningless words, carrying his half of meaningless conversations, hoping it meant he wouldn’t regress back to that kid without any friends. For the past couple of months, he’s been explaining himself to his friends and family, reassuring them over and over that he’s okay, that he’s fine, that they _don’t have to worry, I promise._

By his nature, Yuuri’s used to being quiet around people. But he doesn’t get many chances to be quiet _with_ them. So he revels in this serene moment, relaxing as his nostrils fill with salty sea air.

After a few minutes, Viktor stands up with an urgency that startles Yuuri. He slips out of his shoes and strips his socks off of his feet, tossing them into the sand.

“What are you doing?” Yuuri asks. But he’s sure he’s found his answer once Viktor rolls his pant legs up to his calves.

“I’ve decided to go swimming.”

And then he’s off, a flash of silver along the beach, before Yuuri can even exclaim, “It’s too cold! _Viktor!_ ” His words fall on deaf ears. Yuuri launches himself out of the sand, chasing Viktor to the shoreline.

Viktor’s in the water for only a couple seconds, just long enough for a small wave to eddy around his heels, and then he’s out, kicking the water off his feet. Yuuri barely avoids getting sprayed by a toe-full of sand and seawater as he approaches, taking care to keep his own feet just out of the waves’ reach. “I told you it would be too cold!”

Viktor plops himself into the sand, rubbing his feet between his palms as though he’s trying to make fire. “I know,” he whines, “but I didn’t expect it to be _that_ cold!”

Yuuri shakes his head. “You can be a real stubborn idiot sometimes, you know that?” He crouches by Viktor’s feet and traces his fingers through the sand. Viktor’s fortunate that it’s a sunny day; despite the otherwise chilly weather, the sand has been baking all morning. “Here, this should help warm you up,” he says as he scoops generous piles of sand over Viktor’s feet.

His attention is drawn by a quiet, steady laughter, and he peers over Viktor’s knees to study his face. “What’s so funny?”

Viktor reins in his laughter, though the fond smile on his face remains. “There’s not a lot of people who would call me a stubborn idiot,” he says. Hearing it from Viktor’s mouth, Yuuri realizes how harsh it must have sounded.

“I’m sorry,” he says, brushing the sand off his hands. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Viktor shakes his head. “It’s fine, Yuuri, I assure you. It’s not the worst thing I’ve been called; you can consult with Yakov or my cousins on that one. I don’t mind it, really,” he emphasizes, meeting Yuuri’s unconvinced gaze. Yuuri shrugs and stands up, only to hear the click of his phone’s camera. Viktor has it in his hand, the lens pointed at Yuuri. That’s not going to be a flattering perspective.

“How did you even _get_ that?” Yuuri grouses, wrestling it out of Viktor’s hand as the other man laughs. Then an idea strikes him. “Come on,” he says, grabbing Viktor’s hand and pulling him to his feet. “I want to take you somewhere.”

“Okay!” Viktor grins before bounding back to his shoes and socks, sand flying up behind his heels.

Less than half-an-hour later, the two of them stand outside a convenience store in Hasetsu’s small shopping district. Viktor’s investigating the gift Yuuri’s just purchased for him, rotating it in his hands and squinting through anything that even resembles a lens.

“It’s a disposable camera,” Yuuri explains. He flips the device, setting it into its proper position in Viktor’s hands. There’s another one buried in the plastic bag dangling from Yuuri’s wrist, since he knows full well that Viktor will use up the first one in no time. “You can only take a limited number of photos with these, but once you’ve filled them up, we can print the photos out.” When Viktor’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, Yuuri clarifies, “Turn them into hard copies. Pictures that you can carry around with you.”

Viktor’s eyes go wide as they flick toward the camera. “I LOVE IT,” he breathes out. He brings it up to his eye and _snap!_ There’s another photo of Yuuri. He turns and the camera snaps again. Yuuri tilts his head to see what Viktor deemed worthy of a photo. An advertisement for allergy medicine in the convenience store’s window, apparently. There’s another snap as Viktor aims the camera at a mound of stones.

“Hey, don’t waste all the film at once!”

Viktor twirls around and snaps yet another photo of Yuuri. “I’m not wasting it!” But he finally lowers the camera, admiring it again. “How much do I owe you for this?”

Yuuri’s not sure of the exchange rate between yen and whatever the Land of Ice and Snow’s currency is. “Nothing,” he says. “It’s a gift.”

Viktor says quietly, “You give me too many gifts, Yuuri.”

Yuuri doesn’t know how to respond to that.

There’s not much to explore in Hasetsu’s shopping district, but somehow they spend the remainder of the afternoon there. Viktor drags Yuuri into every shop, investigates every piece of merchandise, and takes pictures of everything he finds even remotely interesting, earning them suspicious looks from some store owners. Yuuri wonders if he should have splurged on a third camera.

Night falls over Hasetsu, and as shops begin to close up, Yuuri decides it’s time for them to grab dinner. Preferably a quick one, if they want to make it to their next destination on time. Yuuri’s confident in Viktor’s adventurous palate by now, so he takes him to a nearby ramen shop and orders for the two of them. Viktor is predictably delighted by the hot, fatty broth; he scrapes his bowl clean before Yuuri finishes his own.

“That was delicious!” Viktor leans back in his seat, expression dreamy. “All your food here is so good. I wish I could travel your world and eat all the magnificent food it has to offer.”

“I’m sure your world has plenty of delicious food, too,” Yuuri says as he finishes his own bowl. He wrestles a few coins out of his pocket and begins to count them.

“Hmm, yours is better,” Viktor mumbles, and Yuuri’s not sure whether he’s referring to the food or the entire world. Yuuri dumps their payment on the counter and leads Viktor out into the chilly night. “So, are we headed back home now?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri shrugs. “I thought we’d make one more stop.” He’s already heading in the opposite direction of the onsen, and he calls over his shoulder, “I promised to take you somewhere fun, didn’t I?”

Viktor’s eyes widen, and he jogs to catch up with Yuuri. “I thought that was the beach! Where are we going?”

“It’s a secret.”

“You’re teasing me, Yuuri.”

Yuuri responds with an exaggerated gasp. “I would _never._ ”

“ _Yuuuuuri._ ”

Yuuri only laughs. “You’ll just have to wait and see!” Sensing Viktor’s impatience, he picks up his pace. Viktor matches it almost step-for-step. “Come on! It’s only a short walk.”

It doesn’t take long before their destination draws into view, yellow light streaming from its windows like a beacon in the night. Yuuri breathes a sigh of relief that it’s still open at this late hour. They scale the steps, Viktor’s eyebrows knitting together as he reads aloud the large letters printed on the building’s side: “Ice Castle.” Viktor looks to Yuuri, bemusement on his face. “Is this what castles in your world look like?”

“It’s not quite a castle.” Yuuri stops as they reach the front doors, hand resting on the handle. “Uh, before we go in… I know a couple of people who work here. When you meet them, try not to do that bowing and hand-kissing thing, okay? It’s, uh...not customary here.”

“What should I do instead?” Viktor asks as Yuuri swings the door open, the hum of a zamboni echoing from inside.

“Say ‘hi’ instead?” Yuuri suggests.

“Are you sure that wouldn’t be disrespectful?”

“As someone who’s spent the majority of twenty-three years in this world, I’m pretty sure.” The door slams shut behind them.

“Ah!” comes a startled voice from the office. Yuuri recognizes it at once, the familiarity of it causing his heart to swell. “We’re closed, sorry!”

“Closed even to old friends?” Yuuri asks.

There’s a loaded pause, and then a short woman bursts through the office doors. Her mouth drops open. “...Yuuri?”

He lifts a sheepish hand and waves. “Hi, Yuuko.”

It’s like the pull of a trigger, and suddenly her arms are snug around his neck, pulling him down into a cramped embrace. “I can’t believe it! I didn’t expect you home for _months!_ ”

“There was a change of plans,” Yuuri says as they pull apart. For the first time, Yuuri gets a good look at Yuuko’s beaming face. She hasn’t aged a day since he left, a miracle considering she’s the mother of triplets, and she’s still as cute as she’s always been.

“Well, I’m glad,” Yuuko says. “I’ve missed you so much!”

“I’ve missed you, too.” The words come out more easily than Yuuri had expected them to.

Yuuko’s attention drifts toward Viktor, eyes widening as if she’s only just noticed him. “Oh? Who’s your guest?”

“This is Viktor,” Yuuri replies. “He’s a friend from college.”

Yuuko flashes a smile at Viktor as she introduces herself, “I’m Yuuko. It’s nice to meet you!”

His hands pressed to his sides, Viktor answers with a stilted, “Hi, my lady.”

Yuuko flushes, caught somewhere between confusion and flattery. Really, Yuuri can only be disappointed in himself.

He clears his throat. “Yuuko and her husband, Takeshi, have been my friends since we were kids,” he says. At this, Viktor’s smile grows impossibly broader, a bright new shine in his eyes.

Yuuko’s eyebrows jump. “Ah, how could I forget about Takeshi?” She marches over to the rink doors and opens one, hollering, “Takeshi! Yuuri’s back!”

The ambient buzz of the zamboni stops immediately.

Takeshi’s every bit as delighted to see Yuuri as his wife, though his hug is less cramped and more suffocating. And to Yuuri’s relief, he and Yuuko take to Viktor immediately. It wasn’t like Yuuri had particularly worried about how his three oldest friends might get along--they were all agreeable enough people, anyway--but there was still something intimidating about the prospect of his two literal worlds colliding.

“I suppose you want some time on the ice,” Takeshi says at last, and Yuuri slouches a little.

“I mean, if it’s not too much trouble…”

“Of course it’s not,” Takeshi insists. “You’re always welcome here. Go put on your ice skates; I’ll have the zamboni gone before you even get to the rink.”

Yuuko finds the least uncomfortable rental skates she can for Yuuri and Viktor. Yuuri’s left his own pair at home, deciding that if Viktor has to suffer rental skates, then it’s only fair that he does, too. For all his graciousness, Viktor’s face betrays his discomfort as he stands up in the skates. It’s brief, though, replaced by an eager grin.

“I see you’ve finally learned how to tie your own skates,” he teases as they head for the rink doors.

One corner of Yuuri’s mouth quirks upward. “In a minute, I’m going to make you eat those words.”

There’s a unfamiliar gleam in Viktor’s eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. He opens the door for Yuuri, nearly bowing as he gestures for him to pass through. “Show me, then.”

However much nostalgia Yuuri had expected upon his return to the rink, what he feels now far exceeds that. He’d missed the rink’s familiar chill, its echoing acoustics, the hours on end that he’d spent on this very ice. It was like an old, chronic ache, one that he’d grown accustomed to over the years, and recognizes only now that it’s finally ceased.

He steps onto the rink, relishing in the sharp sound of blade against ice. Viktor’s already tracing languid circles at the center of the rink. Watching Yuuri, he calls, “So, when exactly are you going to make me eat my words?”

It breaks Yuuri’s reverie, and in a single motion, he launches onto the ice. He sprints across the rink toward Viktor, changing his trajectory only at the last second and skating a sharp curve around the other man, for once a flash of black instead of silver. He gathers more speed as he breaks away from Viktor, and once he’s nearly reached the edge of the rink, he performs a camel spin like it’s nothing. It’s far from perfect--back in his competition days as a teenager, his coach would have chewed him out for it--but it’s just him now, and Viktor, and for once, perfection is the least of his priorities.

“YUURI!”

Yuuri’s attention snaps up to Viktor, who’s racing across the ice toward him. He catches up to Yuuri, blue eyes wide; his voice is rushed, nearly breathless, as he effervesces, “Are you serious? You were keeping _that_ from me all this time? Yuuri, that was amazing!”

Warmth floods Yuuri’s cheeks. “I’ve been practicing a bi-” His facetiously modest response is cut short as Viktor tugs at his hand, leading him to the center of the rink.

“Evidently,” Viktor says, finally releasing his hand. He skates a tight circle around him, and Yuuri twirls in place, following his movement. Viktor puts a bit of space between them before performing a single flip jump. Yuuri watches with a furrowed brow, wondering if it’s a challenge. Viktor drifts back toward him, a single eyebrow raised, confirming that it is.

Yuuri meets it with a single lutz, and Viktor applauds from across the rink.

“YUURI!” he exclaims again. “You’ve improved so much, I can’t-”

“Improved?” Yuuko calls from beyond the barrier. Until now, Yuuri had forgotten that she was watching. “He’s always been a natural!”

Viktor grins, his gaze fixed on Yuuri’s face. “I know.” Then he pulls a salchow out of nowhere. His chin is upturned, a smug smile on his face as he circles Yuuri again.

Yuuri responds with a double salchow and Viktor’s overly self-satisfied expression falters.

They continue with the back-and-forth for a while, neither of them missing the opportunity to one-up the other. Viktor’s marginally better, which comes as no surprise; what does surprise Yuuri is that it doesn’t even matter to him. When he was a teenager, he couldn’t bear to watch his competitors outperform him. Every skill they’d mastered that he hadn’t, every step higher that they stood on the podium, every improvement they’d made between seasons--it was all a reflection on _him_ , on his failure to keep up with everyone else.

But now, with Viktor, the ice feels free again.

Viktor performs a double flip, a favorite of his. Emboldened by the confidence burgeoning within him, Yuuri challenges him with a triple. He just lands it, chest heaving as he regains his balance. It’s worth it for the smirk he directs at Viktor.

Viktor gives an easy shrug. “Impressive.” He skates in a wide circle around Yuuri, a suspiciously calm expression on his face, and then performs a _quad flip_ like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Yuuri knows he’s beat. It’s everything he can do just to keep his jaw from dropping open. Viktor skates up to him, sporting a dumb grin. And despite Yuuri’s better judgment, that’s all the encouragement his equally dumb, competitive brain needs.

His coach had discouraged him from practicing quad flips, reasoning that if Yuuri could barely land a triple, a quad was out of the question. And while that was a perfectly sensible explanation, it hadn’t stopped Yuuri from attempting it once or twice when practicing alone. It had never ended well.

Which is really why he should know better now. At least he’s not surprised when his blade hits the ice at the wrong angle, and he’s dipping, falling, plummeting toward the hard surface, his hands splayed out to catch himself and-

He never hits the ice. Instead, a firm hand catches his, another body’s momentum spinning him into a tenuous standing position.

Yuuri presses his hands to his knees, his breathing shaky as he stabilizes himself. He tilts his head up to spot Viktor inches away in the same position. Wide blue eyes bore into his own.

“Are you okay?” Viktor asks, sounding nearly as out-of-breath as Yuuri. Yuuri nods, lifting his hands off his knees as he straightens. But Viktor remains as he is, head dropped as he mutters, “I’m sorry. That one’s my specialty; it wasn’t fair of me to challenge you with it. I-”

He stops talking at once, and it takes Yuuri a moment to understand why, even though it’s his own finger that’s pressed to the whorl of Viktor’s hair. He snaps his traitor hand back to his chest, blood draining from his face.

“I-I’m sorry!” he squeaks out as Viktor runs his own fingers over the same spot. “I have... _no idea_ why I did that. I’m- Wow. Viktor, I am so-”

“It’s not as pretty as it used to be, is it?” Viktor interrupts, hand falling from his hair as he straightens. His eyes are downcast, an expression so atypical for him that Yuuri’s unsure of how to respond.

“What?”

“It used to be longer,” Viktor laments. “It was prettier then.”

“Oh.” Yuuri’s tempted to reach out, to brush Viktor’s bangs from his eyes, but he asserts enough control over his hand to keep it in place this time. “No,” he disagrees, his voice soft. “It’s just different. That’s not a bad thing.” Viktor lifts his head to meet Yuuri’s eyes, as though he’s measuring the truth of his words, and Yuuri reassures him, “It’s still beautiful.”

Viktor’s response is quiet: “Thank you.”

Yuuri watches as Viktor brushes the bangs aside himself. He asks, “Why _did_ you cut it, though? If you don’t me asking, of course.”

Viktor’s mouth twitches into a half-fledged smile that Yuuri’s sure he’s seen before. “That’s, uh...a long story.”

“Oh.” It’s all Yuuri can offer in response, and he chastises himself for not expecting that, of course, Viktor might also have “long stories.” It’s been fifteen years. Surely Viktor’s life can’t have been all bright, snow-dusted days on frozen ponds. It wasn’t that Yuuri had expected that it had; it’s just that...well, he hadn’t really thought about it. Guilt brews in his chest, compelling him to avert his eyes from Viktor’s.

They’re quiet for a moment, and it’s not the pleasant silence from earlier that day, the kind that cozies in when there’s no need for words; instead it’s the heavy, suffocating sort that lingers in the space left empty by words withheld.

So Yuuri breaks it: “Come on.” He summons up the courage to meet Viktor’s gaze again. “I think it’s time we let Yuuko and Takeshi close up. Race you to the exit?”

Viktor raises a single eyebrow, a glint of competitiveness in his eyes. He gives a one-shouldered shrug and replies, “If you think you can keep up.” He offers no warning before he takes off, racing for the exit at a reckless speed.

“Hey!” Yuuri bolts after Viktor, who’s already halfway to the exit. “You cheater! You know that wasn’t fair!” Somehow he manages to catch up to Viktor, and they squeeze through the exit at the same time, both of them stumbling out awkwardly.

“There,” Yuuri breathes out. “It’s a tie. Even though you cheated.” He watches as Viktor’s hands fly to his skates, tugging the laces until they’re loose. “What are you doing?”

Viktor looks up, sporting a grin that can’t mean anything good. “Race you home?”

“I- _What?_ ”

But Viktor’s already through the rink doors, pulling his shoes off of one of the benches. Unwilling to lose this challenge either, Yuuri tears off his own skates. He bursts through the doors just in time to catch Viktor handing the rental skates back to a befuddled Yuuko with a rushed, “Thank you, my lady!” He winks over his shoulder at Yuuri before disappearing out the main doors.

“Yuuri, what’s going on?” Yuuko asks, standing by the office with Viktor’s skates still cradled in her hands.

“I, uh…” Yuuri doesn’t bother to untie his shoes as he wrestles them on, barely wedging his heels in. He hands his own skates to Yuuko, then pauses as he realizes, “I’m not sure he even knows the way home.” He makes a break for the door, calling over his shoulder, “Thanks, Yuuko! It was great to see you again!” He’s not even sure she caught that last bit, the slamming door truncating his farewell.

He spots Viktor’s lithe form just a little past the bottom of the stairs, and he’s relieved that he’s at least engaged in a jog rather than a full sprint. Yuuri descends the stairs and Viktor increases his pace, though not so much that Yuuri can’t catch up to him.

“You are _too_ competitive,” Yuuri chides as he jogs alongside him.

Viktor grins. “You could have said no.”

But he wouldn’t have, and he guesses Viktor knows that, despite his absence from Yuuri’s life for the past fifteen years. Yuuri surpasses Viktor, brushing his shoulder as he does so, and Viktor laughs before picking up his own pace.

There’s a halcyon quality to Hasetsu at night, punctuated by the steady sound of crashing waves, the dark sky dotted only by stars and streetlights, the streets wide and empty. And while Yuuri and Viktor are anything but quiet, the two of them passing, taunting, shoving each other and laughing all the while, it strikes Yuuri that instead of breaking that tranquility, they’ve become part of it. They belong to this.

But Viktor doesn’t, the rational part of Yuuri’s brain reminds him. At some point, Viktor will have to return home. Yuuri’s not sure why the thought makes his stomach churn and shoulders stiffen, why it rends within his chest. He knows Viktor doesn’t belong to him. He’s always known that.

But here, under Hasetsu’s sparse streetlights, amid the susurrant ebb and flow of the waves, Yuuri can pretend that there is no portal. It’s selfish to entertain his errant hope that the portal will take its time to reopen, he knows that, but his guilt is tempered by the unrestrained joy coursing through him, a line of energy he hasn’t felt in months, if not years.

They’re both out of breath by the time they reach the onsen. Viktor’s won by a small margin, which Yuuri attributes only to his head start. “ _You_ are a cheater,” he hisses as they slip through the entrance. The whole resort is quiet and dark, much like the rest of Hasetsu, and there’s a part of Yuuri that delights in the idea of them being the only two who are awake; it feels like they’re the only two people in the world right now.

They enter the residential wing of the resort and Viktor grins. “ _I_ am a winner.”

There’s a muffled thud from upstairs, and while Viktor doesn’t seem to notice it, Yuuri _feels_ it. He’s lived in this house for most of his life; he knows every corner of it, he knows which floorboards creak most, and he knows the sounds it makes after nightfall.

This is not a sound he knows.

He stills at the bottom of the staircase while Viktor heads up, unfettered. But then there’s a new sound--an urgent, scratchy pattering down the hallway--and even Viktor pauses.

Then a large, curly-haired force crashes into him, nearly knocking him to the bottom of the steps.

Viktor gasps. “ _Makkachin!_ ” He races up to the second floor hallway, plopping down to allow his dog to more easily lick his face. She leaps around him, tail wagging, slobber flying. Viktor scratches behind her ears, a wide smile plastered on his face. “What a good girl! How did you get here?”

Yuuri pads upstairs, joining them in the hallway, and Viktor points at him. Makkachin’s attention follows. “Do you remember Yuuri?” Viktor asks. Yuuri reaches out a tentative hand, palm up, and Makkachin sniffs at it. It’s unlikely that she’d remember him after fifteen years, he thinks, though he doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t get the opportunity to say anything, in fact, because he’s forced to the floor by a pair of heavy paws on his chest. Makkachin slimes his face with her tongue, and Yuuri pulls his glasses from his face in a desperate effort to save them.

“Hi, Makkachin,” he murmurs, scratching her ears in the same way Viktor had. “I missed you, too.”

“Okay, Makkachin, give Yuuri some space to breathe.” Viktor pats Makkachin’s shoulder and she takes a reluctant step back. Yuuri sits up, readjusting his glasses.

As his vision refocuses, he notices a light at the end of the hallway. It’s coming from his room, he realizes, as he wipes the last bit of dog drool from his glasses. “Viktor, did you leave the light on when we left?” he asks, rising to his feet.

“Huh? No,” Viktor replies, brow furrowing as he notices Yuuri’s change in demeanor. He stands up, fingers still buried in Makkachin’s fur. “Did you?”

Yuuri doesn’t answer, only minces his way down the hallway toward his lit bedroom. He pauses just before the entrance, pulse racing, trying to collect himself. Maybe he’s just overreacting, he reasons. One of his family members could have turned the light on for him and Viktor, a kind gesture in anticipation of their late arrival.

But he can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t right. After all, if Viktor and Makkachin could come through the portal, who’s to say no one else can? Summoning all his nerve, Yuuri barges into his room.

Yuuri’s not sure who he expected to find there, but at the very least, he knows a teenage boy wasn’t high on the list.

The boy’s seated on Yuuri’s bed, his small form barely making a dent in it. Viktor enters behind Yuuri, and the boy’s gaze lifts, sharp green eyes glaring up through long strands of blond hair.

When he speaks, it’s with an acridity that seems incongruent with his delicate appearance. “I’m not sure how your dumb dog was the only one in the land able to track you down, but maybe I ought to give her more credit.” His nose wrinkles as Makkachin bounds into the room. “She still reeks, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW I WONDER WHO IT COULD BE
> 
> A quick note: There will be no update next week, as I will be on vacation without my computer. I'm hoping to be able to update the following Saturday, but that of course depends on how jetlagged I am.
> 
> Alsooo, while [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xKF4WZay0CU) isn't the one the chapter's named for, it was basically the soundtrack of my writing it. Just in case you want that extra-immersion experience. I don't really know.
> 
> Thanks again for all your wonderful comments and kudos! I really can't express how appreciative I am of you guys' support!


	5. Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Winter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A6oOeFi2ilo)

“Yuri!”

Yuuri snaps his attention toward Viktor, only to discover that the exclamation was directed at the boy sitting on his bed. Viktor’s smile is broad as he crowds in on him, arms outstretched. “How did you get here?” His attempt at a hug is promptly rejected by the boy’s hand in his face.

“Don’t touch me.” The boy’s upper lip curls into a snarl as he regards Yuuri’s bedroom. “Is this where you’ve been all this time? Where the hell are we?”

“Yu-topia Katsuki,” Viktor supplies. Then his eyes grow wide, and he spins to face Yuuri. “Oh! Yuuri, this is my adorable little cousin, Yuri.” He sneaks his hand into Yuri’s blond hair and ruffles it. The gesture is answered by a sharp smack to his arm.

“I _said_ , don’t touch me.” Yuri eyes Yuuri from head to feet, and Yuuri can’t determine if the boy’s snarl is a reflection of his opinion of Yuuri or just how his face naturally looks. Based on the whole two minutes that Yuuri’s known him, he guesses it’s both. “So you’re also named Yuuri? Great, _that_ won’t get confusing.” His hands slap against his knees as he rises off the bed. “Actually, though, it won’t. Because Viktor’s returning to our land with me right now.”

Yuuri’s heart plummets to his stomach. His attention is glued onto Viktor, tensing for his reaction, gauging every micro-movement Viktor makes as some sort of clue. Yuuri knew this had to end sometime. But even his worst anxieties hadn’t predicted it would happen tonight.

Viktor gives an easy shrug. “Ah, Yuri, while I can’t express enough gratitude to you for finding me-”

“Oh no-”

“-and I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing-”

“What the hell are you pulling-”

“-I’m afraid I’ll have to delay our return for just a little while.”

Yuri’s shoulders visibly tense. His hands ball into fists, his arms hanging rigid at his sides. Yuuri’s half-convinced he spots smoke pouring from his nostrils. But his voice is surprisingly restrained--and boy, can Yuuri hear the strain in it--as he asks, “ _Why?_ ”

“The Katsuki family has generously extended their hospitality to me over the past few days. It would me remiss for me to not properly thank them in the morning.”

“It would be remiss for you to not immediately return to your land, from which you have been missing for _three days._ ”

“Yuri, it would tarnish my honor as a prince if I didn’t-”

“Since when do you care about your honor as a prince?” Yuri’s hands unclench and clench again, as though he’s unsure of what to do with them. He settles for pinching the bridge of his nose. When he releases it a couple moments later, two bright pink marks remain on his pale skin. He emits a drawn-out sigh, then snaps, “ _Fine._ But we’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning, got it?”

It seems Yuri knows just as well as Yuuri that there’s no forcing the immovable phenomenon that is Viktor.

Viktor flashes a wide smile and responds with an agreeable, “Of course!”

Yuuri’s stomach twists into impossible knots. His vision clouds, its edges turning dark. He’d expected Viktor to put up some resistance, or to at least express some regret about leaving Yuuri, but he’s _not._ And at once, Yuuri knows he’s done it again; he’s gotten his hopes up, as he always has, and now they’ve been blown to smithereens, as they always will be. How could he have expected Viktor to be sorry about leaving him? Viktor’s a prince, beloved by his people, an icon of grace and beauty and charm. And Yuuri is just…

“Yuuri.”

He snaps back to attention, meeting Viktor’s questioning eyes. Viktor takes a step toward him as he asks, “Yuuri, are you alright?”

Yuuri takes a matching step back. He scratches at the back of his neck, trying to regain his composure in spite of his racing pulse. “I’m fine.”

“Just _deaf_ , apparently,” Yuri sneers. “So, are you going to offer me a bed to sleep in or not? Like hell I’m leaving this one here unattended.” He casts a derisive glance toward Viktor, who crosses his arms.

“Don’t be rude,” Viktor chides him. Yuri is unfazed.

Yuuri mumbles, “Oh, right. Of course.” He leads them down the hall to Viktor’s room, trying to ignore the way the corridor feels like it’s spinning around him, and shows Yuri the spare room behind Viktor’s bed.

“That’s a room?” Viktor asks, eyebrows high. “I thought it was a closet.”

“That’s because it _is_ a closet, you idiot.” Yuri turns on the two of them, lip upturned. Yuuri marvels that his face hasn’t frozen like that yet. “There’s no way I’m staying in some shitty closet in Viktor’s room.”

Yuuri shrugs. “We have no other open beds right now. The only alternative is you sharing a bed with Viktor.”

Yuri’s face pales. “I- _NO._ ” He marches into the spare room and slams the door shut behind him. There’s a pause before he opens it, just long enough to remind Viktor, “We are leaving _tomorrow morning!_ No excuses!” The door slams shut again.

Viktor turns toward Yuuri, his face sporting the same agreeable smile as earlier. “You’ll have to excuse Yuri,” he says. “You know how teenagers can be.”

“Shut _up!_ ” comes the muffled response from the closet.

“It’s fine,” Yuuri mutters. His nerves are too frayed for him to quite meet Viktor’s eyes, so he keeps his gaze steady on the floor as he asks, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“I don’t think so. You’ve been more than accommodating.”

Yuuri gives a faint nod. “Okay. I guess I’ll head back to my room, then.” He numbly makes his way toward the door, sliding it open. “Have a good ni-”

Yuuri stills as foreign fingers catch his own. They tug gently at his hand and he turns around to face their silver-haired source. Immediately his hand is released, dropping limply back to his side. Viktor somehow looks paler than usual, his eyes wide as they focus on Yuuri’s hand. Finally, his gaze drifts up to Yuuri’s face. “I- Sorry, that was- I don’t-” He pauses, brow furrowing.

Yuuri’s not sure he’s exhaled since Viktor’s fingers intertwined with his. His hand twitches by his side, the warmth of the touch still lingering, buzzing through him like a live wire.

Viktor takes a breath, deep enough that his shoulders rise and fall along with it. His face has lost any trace of uncertainty, back to the pleasant, regal air that comes so easily to him. “Thank you for taking care of us.”

“Oh.” Yuuri drops his head, berating himself for expecting anything different. “You’re welcome.” He moves to leave again, pausing briefly at the door. “Good night,” he says again, and this time, Viktor lets him finish it.

Yuuri spends most of the night on his back, staring absently at the ceiling above his bed. His phone flashes time and again, but he doesn’t check it. Phichit’s going to be pissed that his messages are going unanswered. But Phichit should probably also have expected as much. This is Yuuri, after all. Dull, nervous, disappointing Yuuri. Maybe he should stop trying to convince other people that he’s anything else.

Despite the pressure behind his eyes, Yuuri doesn’t cry that night. He’s proud of that. Fighting his excess tears is a skill he’s honed over the years.

Thing is, he doesn’t sleep much, either.

What little sleep Yuuri scrounges is disrupted by the early, blue-hued dawn light filtering through his blinds. He wipes the crusty sleep from his eyes and sits up, his chest tightening as his bleary gaze settles on the closet.

That’s right. Today’s the day Viktor leaves. First thing this morning - that’s what Yuri had decided upon, anyway. And Viktor had just...agreed to it. But it makes sense, Yuuri reasons. Viktor has a kingdom to return to. Yuuri could never hope to be anything comparable to that.

By the way his chest, stomach--his _everything_ , really--hurts, Yuuri figures he won’t be getting any more sleep. So he slides out of bed, changes out of his pajamas, and pads downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. To his surprise, the pot is already warm. One of his parents must have awoken early, too.

Yuuri boils a new pot of tea and pours himself a cup. He leans against the kitchen counter, fingers wrapped around the teacup, absorbing its warmth. The light coming in through the window has a yellower tint to it now, and Yuuri figures the clouds must be sparse today. It’ll make for a good sunrise. The chill in the air--or at least in the kitchen--isn’t too bitter, so Yuuri decides to enjoy the sunrise from outside.

He heads onto the patio, only to find that someone has already beaten him there.

Viktor swivels on the bench, his eyebrows high. “Ah, Yuuri!” He scooches to the end of the bench and gestures for Yuuri to sit beside him. Yuuri does.

Viktor’s fingers are wrapped around his own cup of tea, its contents now half-depleted. He studies Yuuri’s face for a moment, and Yuuri waits for him to say something. But he doesn’t, drawing his gaze back to his teacup, his thumb running circles around the rim. A pang of annoyance strikes Yuuri, because it’s _not fair._ Not fair that the portal closed for fifteen years without any warning; not fair that Yuuri lost all memory of Viktor until he stumbled into this world a couple of days ago; not fair that after all this, after all Viktor’s fanfare upon their reunion and that electric hope in Yuuri’s chest that promised better things, _great_ things, that Viktor is leaving without a single meaningful word.

If Viktor won’t speak, then Yuuri will do it for him. He huffs. “So, I guess you’re leaving today.”

Viktor’s thumb continues its rotations around the cup, his gaze not lifting from it. “I suppose so.”

Yuuri takes a sip of his tea, his grip tightening around the cup as Viktor declines to say anything else. “I- Maybe it’s selfish,” he says, eyes glued to the horizon, now painted in bright reds. “It probably is, but I- I’d hoped the portal might take a little longer to reopen.”

Viktor’s response is quiet: “Me too.” He still refuses to look up from his tea, even as he says, “But now that it’s open, I have no excuses. I have to go back.”

“Why?”

The question is out of Yuuri’s mouth before he can think better of it. Of course he knows why; he’s always known, even when they were children, why Viktor could not be a part of this world. Viktor belongs to his own world; he’s a prince, with a responsibility to his people, and duties to fulfill. He has friends and family who love him, subjects who adore him, a kingdom to help govern. It’s a stupid question, and they both know it.

Viktor’s thumb pauses on the cup’s rim, his brow furrowing. “What?”

Yuuri jumps to his feet, his tea miraculously remaining in his cup despite its splashing. “Sorry, that was a dumb-” Viktor’s watching him finally, unwavering blue eyes peeled onto him, and Yuuri freezes. “Never mind,” he mumbles. The muffled sound of cabinets opening and shutting drifts out of the kitchen doorway. They’re not the only two awake anymore. “Come on,” Yuuri says, extending a hand to Viktor. “Let’s go get breakfast.”

Viktor doesn’t take it. Yuuri’s heart drops, fearing that his question might have offended Viktor. Viktor stares at Yuuri’s hand for a moment before his wide eyes drift up to meet Yuuri’s. “What happens after this?”

Yuuri shrugs. “You go home, I stay here, and we visit each other from time to time.” He’s not certain of that last bit, and judging from how Viktor’s brows knit together, it doesn’t look like he is, either. Whatever their intentions, there’s no guarantee the portal won’t close up again. It did once for fifteen years; it could easily do so again. Yuuri’s stomach twists at the thought.

Viktor takes his hand and Yuuri pulls him to his feet. They stay there for a moment, hands still clasped, neither uttering a word. Then Yuuri pulls Viktor into him, arms capturing him in a tight embrace. His nose is buried in Viktor’s shoulder, and Yuuri inhales deeply, wishing he could memorize this moment down to the smell of Viktor’s shirt, wishing that he didn’t have to, wishing that this embrace could keep Viktor from leaving forever.

But it won’t, and so Yuuri breaks the hug, catching Viktor’s stunned expression before averting his gaze. Yuuri takes Viktor’s empty cup into his free hand and offers a thin smile, his eyes drawn to the cup rather than Viktor. “Let’s get breakfast,” he says again. Without a word, Viktor follows him to the kitchen.

Hiroko’s already preparing her own breakfast when they enter. She offers Viktor and Yuuri some, but the two settle for cereal, neither of them feeling particularly hungry. Toshiya joins them in the kitchen a few minutes later, followed shortly afterward by Mari.

The last one to straggle into the kitchen, blond hair disheveled and eyes half-lidded, yet his scowl ever-ready, is Yuri. “Viktor’s cousin,” Yuuri introduces him to his family.

Mari’s lips press together, and Yuuri expects her to make some skeptical comment, but instead she says, “We can’t have two ‘Yuris’ here. That’s way too confusing. We’ll call you...hm, Yurio.”

Yuri temporarily ceases pouring cereal into his own bowl. “That’s stupid. Don’t ever call me that again.”

To Yuuri’s mild amusement, the nickname sticks through breakfast, which is punctuated by utterances of “pass the tea, would you, Yurio” and “Yurio, would you like anything else to eat?” Meanwhile, Yuri’s responses gradually temper from dramatic eye-rolling to barely-audible grunts. Mari, Yuuri, and Viktor might be using the name facetiously--Viktor makes a point to use it in every sentence directed at his cousin--but it seems even Yurio can’t be infuriated by the genuinely kind manner in which Hiroko and Toshiya say the name.

Yuuri spends most of breakfast trying his best not to stare at Viktor. But he can’t shake the fear that these might be the last few minutes he ever gets with Viktor, that the portal will seal up the moment Viktor leaves, and Yuuri will spend the next fifteen years or more carrying that empty space within his chest once again. He’d been fine before, when he was unaware of that gaping hole inside of him, but the past few days have reminded him of how it feels to be whole, and he can’t imagine how he’ll carry on once it’s been emptied again.

Yuuri’s heart skips a beat as he overhears Hiroko ask, “Yurio, how long are you planning on staying?” His hand balls into a fist, his thumbnail scratching against the table’s surface. He lifts his teacup to his mouth, hoping it will trick everyone into thinking he’s being nonchalant about the whole situation.

The response comes not from Yurio, but from Viktor: “We’ll probably be here for another day or so.”

Yuuri nearly chokes on his tea. Yurio actually does, his face red as he coughs and splutters, and it’s unclear whether his tomato color is due more to his tea inhalation or his bubbling fury.

Yurio slams his cup back down. The quiet, gasping quality to his voice only serves to make it more sinister as he seethes, “We really should get back _today._ ”

Viktor waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, there’s no rush.”

Yurio sputters out, “Are y- I ca- Wha- _YOU._ ” He pushes himself off the floor and marches around the table toward Viktor. He grabs the collar of Viktor’s shirt, practically dragging him across the kitchen floor toward the doorway. “We’re going to have a talk.”

Viktor scrambles to his feet, still hunched over as Yurio leads him out of the kitchen. He casts a jovial expression toward Yuuri’s dumbfounded family. “Thank you for breakfast!” he calls. “It was delicious!” The two of them disappear into the hallway.

“I guess it was a touchy subject,” Mari observes flatly. She rises out of her seat and stretches. “Well, I’m done anyway.” She bends down, dishes clanging as she collects them. “Yuuri, your bowl is empty. Are you finished?”

Yuuri snaps his attention away from the doorway and back onto her. “Oh!” he says, blinking down at his bowl and trying to register her question. He can barely focus on anything right now, aside from Viktor’s unexpected answer and his own pounding heartbeat. “I, uh… Yeah, I guess.” He hands it to her. “Thanks.”

His gaze drifts back to the doorway. “I, uh… I think I’m going to…”

“Why don’t you go check on them?” Mari offers.

Sometimes Yuuri’s grateful for his sister’s insight. He gives a quick nod of thanks before rushing out of the kitchen.

Viktor and Yurio aren’t on the first floor, that’s for sure. It’s far too quiet. So Yuuri pads upstairs, keeping his steps light as muffled voices echo through the hallway. There’s a bite to them--well, to just one of them--and Yuuri wonders if he shouldn’t intrude.

But he recalls Viktor’s words-- _another day_ \--and something in his chest flutters. Just another day or so, that’s all, he tries to remind himself, reticent to let his hopes soar so high again.

But still, it’s something. It’s enough.

Yuuri approaches the guest room, the obvious source of the argument not only due to the voices resonating from within it, but also due to Makkachin’s anxious presence outside of it. She’s whimpering, her nose pressed up against the door. Yuuri reaches his hand toward her and she nestles her head into it, her tail thumping on the floor.

“But you _promised_ we would leave this morning!” The voice cuts through the door and Yuuri winces, even though it’s not directed at him. “You’ve done a lot of stupid shit before, but this takes it to a new level!”

Viktor’s response is calmer, more restrained: “I just think it would be rude.”

“Th- That is so stupid!” Someone stomps around the room--Yurio, no doubt--and Yuuri ducks out of the doorway in case the door flies open. But the stomping ceases a few feet shy of the door. “I’m sick of your excuses. I will force you and that mutt through the portal if I have to!”

“It’ll be just one more day,” Viktor says. “I promise.”

“Like you promised we would leave this morning? I don’t think so.”

“I just…” There’s a sigh, and then Viktor’s voice softens enough that Yuuri has to press his ear against the door to catch it. “I need time to say goodbye.”

“That’s what today was supposed to be for.”

“I know. But it wasn’t the right time.”

“And what will the right time be? Will it really be in one day? Or in two? Or a week, or a month, or whenever you feel like it?” Yurio’s voice is almost raspy, like it’s being stretched thin. “Need I remind you that your coronation is in a week?”

Everything in Yuuri’s body stiffens. Viktor hadn’t mentioned anything about a coronation. He hadn’t mentioned that in a week’s time, he would be _king_ , and that really strikes Yuuri as something worth mentioning. Besides, Viktor’s parents are fairly young--at least that’s how Yuuri remembers them from their portraits--so there was no way Yuuri could expect they’d have abdicated, unless-

His heart drops. _No_. He shuts the idea out. No, there can’t be an “unless.”

At least, for Viktor’s sake, he hopes there’s not.

Yurio’s acrid voice carries through the door, “You’ve made everyone sick with worry, you know. Our subjects are wondering where their prince has gone, other kingdoms are growing suspicious, and Yakov’s been so busy downplaying the fact that you’ve just _traipsed out_ without a word or care that he’s bound to lose what little hair he has left. Did you really think there wouldn’t be repercussions to this?”

“I didn’t mean- I…” Viktor trails off, and Yuuri’s tempted to burst through the door and defend him, to explain to Yurio that the portal was closed whether Viktor wanted to return or not. “Just one more day, Yuri. This time, I mean it.”

The nearness of Viktor’s voice to the door gives Yuuri just enough warning to jump back, narrowly avoiding a collision with Viktor as the door slides open. Viktor stops in place, blue eyes blinking as he regards Yuuri. Makkachin jumps up, her paws landing on his chest, and he pats her head as he says, “Yuuri, I-”

“Sorry!” Yuuri rushes, voice pitched with a panic that he hopes Viktor doesn’t notice. “I wasn’t eavesdropping! I just, uh… I noticed Makkachin outside your door, and I was wondering if she needed a walk, and-and…”

Viktor’s face loses its stunned expression and recovers its usual cheerful demeanor. “Ah. That’s very thoughtful. Thank you, Yuuri.” He shifts Makkachin’s paws off his chest and she lands on all fours with a muted thud. “I’m sure Makkachin would enjoy a walk through town. In fact,” he adds, shooting a glance back into the guest room, “we should bring Yurio along as well. We can show him all around Hasetsu.”

Yurio, who’s sulking on the bed with his arms crossed, looks like he’d rather do anything else. But he only sighs and metes out a defeated, “ _Fine._ ” He slams his palms to the bed and pushes himself off, gaze lowered to the floor as he glowers at nothing in particular.

Well, Yuuri thinks, this will be a fun walk.

It goes better than he’d feared. It’s primarily due to Yurio’s fascination with all things modern, just as smitten by technology as his cousin. He watches every passing car with slack-jawed reverence and presses his hands and face against shop windows, eyes wide as he regards the televisions and computers inside them. After Viktor snaps a photo of Yurio, the younger royal snags the camera out of his hand and presses his eye to the lens, taking three photos of a stunned Viktor and Yuuri in rapid succession.

He scowls. “I don’t see anything. When do I get to see the pictures?”

“I’ll have them printed soon,” Yuuri promises.

Yurio aims the camera on himself and snaps another photo. Viktor plucks it out of his hand.

“Enough, Yurio. That’s mine.”

Over lunch at the same ramen shop as last night--Viktor had insisted they return--the two royals fuss over Yuuri’s phone. He’s not sure how Viktor keeps pilfering it off of him, but he’s learned to accept the inevitability of it.

“See this, Yurio?” Viktor says, his soup bowl once again scraped clean. “It’s called a phone. Yuuri’s named his Phichit.”

Yurio scrolls his finger up the screen. “What’s this list of names? Oh, Phichit-” He presses his thumb to the screen and the phone begins to ring. Yuuri scrambles out of his seat to wrestle his phone back.

“No, no!” He hits the “end call” symbol, heart pounding. Phichit just barely let his lack of explanation for Viktor slide yesterday; he’d definitely demand one for Yurio. He shoves the phone back into his pocket, knowing full well the effort is perfunctory at best. “No more phone calls.”

He decides to treat Viktor and Yurio to a surprise after lunch. Besides, he needs some time to himself; he has an errand to run. They part ways outside the Hasetsu cinema, Viktor’s brow furrowed as he hands his camera over to Yuuri.

“I don’t understand why I can’t bring this inside,” he says, voice sounding almost mournful.

“They don’t allow cameras inside movie theaters,” Yuuri explains, tucking the camera into his pocket. “But don’t worry, I’ll take good care of this. And her, too,” he adds, with a nod toward Makkachin. She responds with a good-natured bark. “Now, do you remember the instructions I gave you?”

Viktor repeats them back to him: “Go up to the ticket counter, ask for two tickets to….” He presses his lips together, clearly trying to recall the name of the film.

“ _Space Fights_ ,” Yurio supplies with an eyeroll.

“Right. Then we give them the money, take the tickets, and go into the theater they tell us.” Viktor smiles broadly at Yuuri. “Is that right?”

Yuuri grins. “Perfect. Now, go on. You don’t want to miss the beginning; it’s a good one!” He watches as the two other-worlders make their way into the theater, Viktor granting him one last wave as he holds the door open.

Yuuri waves back. The door swings shut and he embarks on his errand, heading back in the direction of the convenience store, Makkachin trotting by his side. He tries to ignore that heavy weight in his stomach, that ache in his chest, that persistent nagging that despite all the fun they’ve had since breakfast, Viktor is still planning on leaving tomorrow. But he has one more day here, Yuuri reminds himself. And Yuuri’s going to make the most of it. At least he’s prepared this time; at least now he can give Viktor something to remember him by.

When he returns to the theater forty minutes later, an envelope full of Viktor’s photos weighing down his pocket, he finds the two royals waiting for him on a bench outside the theater. Yurio’s staring sullenly at the ground, arms crossed over his chest. Viktor’s gaze lifts at Yuuri’s approach, and he grants him a wide smile.

“Yuuri!”

“What happened?” Yuuri asks as he nears them. Makkachin’s already bouncing around Viktor’s feet. “Did they sell out of tickets?”

“No, we got tickets. It’s just that…” Viktor shoots a glance at Yurio, who slumps further into the bench. “Well, they have certain rules that we were unaware of.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Shouting at the giant woman on the screen.”

“Oh.”

“Also, trying to punch the screen.”

“ _Oh._ ”

Yurio’s scowl deepens. But Viktor assures Yuuri, smile as genuine as Yuuri knows it, “But we had a great fifteen minutes, really!”

Yuuri blinks. “Fifteen minutes? Did you even get past the trailers?”

Viktor responds with a shrug. “I’m not sure.”

Yuuri shakes his head and pulls the second disposable camera from his pocket. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed at least fifteen minutes of it,” he says as the device passes into Viktor’s hands. Viktor takes it back eagerly, clutching it like a precious relic.

“Did you finish your errand?” Viktor asks, directing the camera at Yurio’s face. Yurio slaps his hand away, but not before the telltale _click._

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, his fingers dancing along the edge of the envelope in his pocket. But he doesn’t pull it out. There’s too much finality to it still. “Come on,” he says, with a tilt of his head. “Let’s show Yurio the ninja castle.”

Viktor leaps to his feet, beaming. He grabs Yurio’s wrist and tugs him off the bench before Yurio can fight it. “Yes! Come on, Yurio, you’re going to love this!”

Yuuri can’t ignore the pressing weight of the envelope in his pocket as they meander through town. He’ll hand them over soon, he promises himself. It’s just not the right time.

 

They return to Yu-topia Katsuki that evening, bedraggled after a full day of touring Hasetsu--which isn’t something that should take a whole day, really, but somehow Viktor and Yurio were able to drag it out. Upon their arrival, Yurio grumbles something about a bath and heads into the onsen. Yuuri’s stomach grumbles, and he offers to find the three of them something to eat.

He rummages through the refrigerator, searching for any ingredients he might know how to put together. “Uh...how do you feel about leftover gyoza?” he asks Viktor as he examines a sealed container. “We also have instant ramen, but...no, we had that earlier today. I guess I could make some katsu curry, if you like.”

There’s no response.

“Viktor?” Yuuri rises up, shutting the refrigerator door. Viktor’s not even in the kitchen.

But Yuuri’s pretty sure he knows where he is this time.

He slips through the doorway to find Viktor on the patio bench, Makkachin curled at his feet. “May I sit?” Yuuri asks as he approaches.

Viktor shifts to the side. “Of course!”

Yuuri’s gaze falls to the horizon. It’s sunset now, but otherwise this feels just like a repeat of this morning--the sky still lit in reds and oranges, Yuuri’s stomach still empty, Viktor still inevitably leaving. After all that’s happened today, nothing’s really changed.

“Thank you for today,” Viktor says, drawing Yuuri’s attention away from the horizon. “I know Yurio isn’t always easy to get along with, and I know I can be a handful too--don’t argue with me on this, Yuuri, you know it’s true.” Yuuri wasn’t going to argue. “But you’ve been so patient. So kind. I’m just...really grateful. Thank you.”

Yuuri gulps. “It’s, uh...it’s not a problem. I didn’t mind it. I...I really enjoy spending time with you.” Viktor’s eyes widen, and Yuuri casts his gaze toward his fingers, which are worrying at a stubborn hangnail. “I know you have to go back, though,” he’s quick to add. “But I’ve liked having you here.”

“Me too,” comes the quiet response.

They’re quiet for a moment longer before Yuuri heaves a sigh. “I, uh...I didn’t mean to eavesdrop earlier, but when I went to retrieve Makkachin and you and Yurio were having that discussion about leaving, I couldn’t help but overhear something about a...coronation?” There’s silence from Viktor’s end for a couple seconds, and Yuuri bates his breath for the entirety of it.

“Ah. I’d forgotten to mention that,” Viktor says finally, and Yuuri wonders if he’s bothered to put any effort into the lie.

Yuuri knows he’s treading on thin ice with the next question, be he can’t bear not knowing: “Did your parents abdicate?”

“No.”

There it is. Yuuri’s struck by an overwhelming need to apologize--for asking, for not knowing, for the very happening itself.

But Viktor continues, his gaze leveled at the ground, “They died a long time ago. A sickness of early winter swept through the land. It took so many--men, women, children, royalty; it didn’t care. Fast-acting, incurable. The doctors said it was the worst they’d ever seen. For thousands of years, foreign armies have lined up along our borders only to fall, but this disease--it sucked the breath out of our land in a matter of months.

“For our safety, my cousins and I were sent to stay with the royal family of the Land of Great Mountains. But my parents stayed behind. I never… I never expected that it would be the last time I would see them. Of course I knew the risk, but...you know, when you’re a kid, everyone you love is immortal until they’re not.”

Yuuri’s vision is foggy, and he finds himself torn between reaching for Viktor’s hand and worrying if that would be inappropriate. He keeps his hand in his lap as he whispers, “I’m so sorry, Viktor.”

“Don’t be.” Viktor shakes his head. “They knew their duty. They had to stay with their people no matter the cost.”

“That can’t have made it easier, though.”

Viktor’s blue gaze finally returns to Yuuri. He blinks, his shoulders relaxing. “I prayed everyday that you wouldn’t come through the portal. If you had contracted the illness too, I...I don’t know what I would have…” He trails off, casting his gaze away again. “Of course, it didn’t really matter. When I returned to the palace, the portal had sealed itself up, and you were...gone.” He bites his lip before adding, “So much changed in just a matter of months. One-fifth of our people were lost, my parents were lost, _you_ were lost, Yakov was made regent, Yurio made second-in-line at under a year old.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen. “Yurio’s second-in-line?”

“Indeed. The illness took his parents as well. He’s been raised by his maternal grandfather, under our uncle Yakov’s watchful eye, of course. It’s a pity, really, that he’s not heir. He’s bright, despite his attitude, and he’s always shown such an interest in his studies. He can name every monarch through our lineage, knows every detail of our irrigation system, the history of our relations with our neighboring nations, and I… I’ve been dallying in this world for the past three days.”

“That’s not your fault,” Yuuri insists. “You didn’t know the portal was going to disappear again.” Viktor doesn’t say anything, just presses his lips together, so Yuuri asks the next question at the tip of his tongue: “If you’re 27 now, then shouldn’t you have become king already?”

Viktor sighs. “I should have, yes. But I never felt ready. So I traveled and furthered my studies, hoping they might finally make me ready.” He shrugs. “They didn’t. But it doesn’t matter whether I feel ready. My people need me, and they’ve been waiting long enough. I owe them this much.”

Yuuri doesn’t know how to respond to that, or even whether he should. Instead the two of them sit in silence for a while longer, watching the last glimmer of red sink beneath the horizon. The envelope hangs like a weight in Yuuri’s pocket, reminding him that Viktor has to go back, that there’s no changing it. But still, he doesn’t reach for it.

Because a kindling of hope sparks in his chest as it occurs to him that yes, Viktor is leaving, but that doesn’t mean this has to be the end. Not yet, anyway.

“I could go with you.”

Viktor’s eyes widen as they regard him. “Yuuri,” he says, voice hardly more than a breath. “Thank you, but...I can’t ask that of you.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

Viktor’s brow furrows. “But what if the portal closes again?”’

Yuuri gives a shrug that suggests more confidence than he actually has. “It always seems to open again.”

Viktor stares at him for a few seconds longer, and Yuuri’s sure he’s searching for more excuses to say no. But then his mouth breaks into a broad grin, and it’s the only warning Yuuri gets before Viktor’s pulled him into a tight hug. A shiver travels down his spine from the proximity of Viktor’s breath to his ear as Viktor murmurs, “Thank you, Yuuri.”

Before Yuuri knows it, one of his arms is reciprocating the hug, his palm pressing against Viktor’s shoulder blade. “Of course,” he says.

“GROSS!”

They pull apart to face the blond-haired boy at the entrance to the kitchen. His lip is upturned as he grouses, “So, are we going to eat dinner or are you two content to starve us all to death?”

Viktor laughs. He takes Yuuri’s hand in his own and effervesces, eyes bright, “I’m so happy you’re coming with us. I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone! They’re going to love you, I know, just as much as-”

“HEY! DINNER!”

Viktor laughs again. He rises off the bench, tugging on Yuuri’s hand to pull him up as well. Their fingers remain tangled as they head back into the kitchen. There’s supposed to be a time limit to these things, Yuuri thinks, before they become uncomfortable. He’s not sure what it is.

He also doesn’t care.

 

Light has barely flooded the horizon by the time the four of them--one prince, one grouchy teenager, one dog, one Yuuri--line up in front of Yuuri’s closet. Everything’s ready and prepared; Yuuri’s informed his family and Phichit that he’s going on a short trip with Viktor and Yurio and will be out of cell range.

But his stomach still churns.

Even after all these years, the portal still feels like a stranger. It’s finicky, unpredictable, and Yuuri has no guarantee that he’ll be able to return to his family anytime soon. Or ever. He tries not to dwell on that latter possibility. The knot in his stomach tightens and he fails to suppress a gulp.

He startles as a hand just grazes his, and he looks up to meet Viktor’s eyes. Viktor offers a small smile. “You don’t have to do this,” he reminds Yuuri.

But Yuuri only shakes his head. He reaches for Viktor’s hand, seeking the warm touch again, and Viktor’s fingers eagerly intertwine with his. It’s apparently the only answer Viktor needs. He squeezes Yuuri’s hand and, together, they step through the portal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off to the Land of Ice and Snow!
> 
> This update came a little later than I would have liked, but here it is now! (In hindsight, shooting for a Saturday update was pretty dumb considering my flight got back Saturday night, but hey, I can't be expected to remember my own travel plans.) The next update might take a bit longer as well, since I haven't had a chance to even start on the next chapter. But I'll have it up for you guys as soon as I can! Thanks for your patience these past couple weeks, and as always, for your wonderful comments and kudos! :)


	6. Land of the Living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Land of the Living](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ay80nO7xzSo)

There’s a distinct chill in the air, so familiar it incurs a pained nostalgia in Yuuri as he slips through Viktor’s dangling linens. The armoire doors open to reveal a bedroom no less opulent than Yuuri remembers it, stuffed with unnecessary furniture and lavish decoration. As a child, Yuuri saw it as a symbol of that royal, unattainable facet of Viktor; now, Yuuri finds it completely incongruent with the Viktor he knows.

He nearly remarks on the passage of time since he was last here, but then Yurio brusquely shoves past him, and Yuuri remembers that his past isn’t something everyone is privy to.

Yurio doesn’t even look at them as he marches out of the room. “I’ll announce our return.”

Yuuri moves to follow him, but he’s stopped by the insistent tug of Viktor’s fingers on his own. He turns to find Viktor’s gaze drawn to their joint hands, his thumb tracing along Yuuri’s knuckles. “Not yet,” Viktor says, his voice quiet. “I don’t want this to end before it has to.”

Yuuri furrows his brow. “What do you me-”

The clamorous shuffling of what can only be a stampede reverberates through the corridor leading to Viktor’s bedroom, and Yuuri jerks his head around just in time to watch Yurio lead a whole staff of people through the bedroom doors. Their voices erupt into a variously-pitched cacophony of “Your Highness!” They swarm around Yuuri and Viktor, bodies wedging themselves between the two of them; in the chaos, Yuuri loses his grip on Viktor’s hand. He frantically reaches after it, but his fingers close on empty air.

His heart is racing, the rush of blood in his ears nearly loud enough to match the uproar around him. This is too much, too wild, and he’s just lost sight of his anchor. He grips the sides of his head as he stares at the floor, his vision increasingly unfocused. If Yuuri can’t reach Viktor, then at the very least he wants to draw inwards, sheltering himself from the blaring voices all around him:

“Your Highness, are you alright?”

“Your Highness, your uncle has requested your presence.”

“Is there anything you need, Your Highness? Do you require any food?”

“Your Highness, your uncle is _quite_ insistent that-”

“Yuuri!”

His head jerks up, eyes searching for the voice, his beacon in the furor. Viktor’s being shuffled out of the bedroom doors, his body half-twisted back toward Yuuri as he says, “Someone has to attend to Yuuri!” But then Viktor disappears into the corridor with his overbearing entourage, Makkachin bounding cheerfully after them.

Yuuri’s left alone in the bedroom, save for a maid who’s apparently stuck with the job of attending to him, whatever that means. She looks less-than-thrilled to be there, lips pursed as she appraises Yuuri. Normally he’d feel self-conscious, but he’s still in shock from the sudden rush of people. His hand feels uncomfortably empty.

The maid quirks an eyebrow. “Are you Yuuri?”

“Oh. Uh, yes. I’m a friend of Viktor’s. We met during his travels,” Yuuri says, reciting the lie they’d concocted the previous night.

The maid’s face remains impassive, and Yuuri’s face flushes with embarrassment. Of course she doesn’t care about their little story. Yuuri’s enough of a nobody in his own world; he’s somehow even less in this one.

“Do you require fresh clothes?” the maid asks him.

Yuuri looks over his recently laundered outfit and wonders if he should take offense. He shakes his head. “No, these are fine.”

“Then would you like any food?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you require anything else, sir?”

Yuuri’s not sure why why Viktor thought he might need attending to, but he figures he ought to free the poor maid from her misery. “Probably not,” he says. “You’re dismissed...I guess?” He cringes as the words leave his mouth. Was his phrasing rude? It was awkward, in any case. Everything he’s learned about palace life has come from films and novels, and at least half of those have included dragons, so those lessons might not be so applicable here. Unless, of course, this land has dragons too, but Yuuri hopes Viktor would have mentioned those.

The maid offers a quick curtsy before making her escape.

Now that Yuuri’s truly alone, he finds himself at a loss for what to do. As much as he would like to follow after Viktor, he’s fairly certain Viktor is completely inaccessible right now. He could explore the rest of the palace, he supposes, as he meanders about the bedroom. Yuuri runs his fingers along Viktor’s bed frame, tracing the designs in the gold-painted wood. He can still picture the two of them seated on the oversized mattress, Yuuri braiding Viktor’s long hair, the flower crown inches from his knee. Yuuri turns his head toward the gilded mirror opposite the bed and catches his weary reflection. No wonder the maid had been unimpressed by him.

Yuuri spots a sheet of construction paper tacked to the wall beside the mirror - his birthday card to Viktor. He takes a shaky step forward as he studies it, a scribbly depiction of a tall, silver-locked boy standing beside a shorter, bespectacled one. The only thing they have in common, aside from their squiggly nature, are the broad smiles plastered on both of their faces.

Yuuri’s actual face flushes at the sight. He’d be surprised that Viktor still had the drawing up, if not for the fact that the room barely seems to have changed at all in fifteen years. There are some interesting new additions, to be sure--an inexplicable stone bust beside the bed, for one, or the entirely too many lamps crammed into the room--but most of the room has remained unaltered.

Yuuri casts a glance toward the doors. He could wait for Viktor here, he muses, but there’s nothing else to do here and there’s no telling when Viktor will be back. Or Yuuri could do some exploring. After all, now that he’s here as Viktor’s official guest and not some rogue child, he can freely wander about the palace. And just maybe, he thinks, a foolish hope rising in his chest, he’ll find Viktor during his travels.

* * *

 

“I promise it’s safe, Yuuri.” Viktor’s voice is barely above a whisper, yet Yuuri’s convinced the entire palace can hear it. Every tiny noise they make seems to reverberate through the corridor, dark as night save for the lanterns lining the walls, and Yuuri considers informing Viktor that he’s changed his mind, and he’d really rather stay in Viktor’s bedroom than explore the palace. Viktor adds, “We just have to be quiet.”

Well, Yuuri is at least agreed on that front.

They sneak down the corridor, Yuuri taking care to keep even his breaths quiet. Viktor’s more at ease, his shadow dancing from lantern to lantern along the wall, a prince in his natural habitat. But Yuuri’s a stranger here, a foreign smudge on the palace’s pristine shine, and he can’t shake the feeling that everyone else in the palace can sense that.

They descend two flights of winding stairs before Viktor leads Yuuri to an arched doorway. He pushes one of the doors open a sliver, peeks in, and then motions for Yuuri to follow. Yuuri slips in after him, and his eyes blink several times in the darkness before there’s a hiss of a match, and a candle flares to life in Viktor’s hand. Though small, the light’s still enough to illuminate the room’s towering bookshelves, packed to the brim with thick tomes, some of them freshly bound, others worn at the seams. A wide staircase, lined with golden railings, leads to a second floor with broad windows that open to the stars. Maps and tapestries adorn the walls on both floors, many of them labeled in scripts Yuuri doesn’t recognize.

“The library looks better during the day,” Viktor explains. “The sunlight comes streaming in through the upper floor windows and the whole library looks golden. But I suppose it has its own beauty at night, too.”

It beats Hasetsu’s library, that’s for sure.

Yuuri trails after Viktor as the latter details all the different books and tapestries and artifacts they pass by. “A map of our peoples before the melting of the glaciers,” he provides. “Those are weather records of every day for the past four centuries. They had to start a new one just last month.” “That coat of arms was designed by my twelfth-great-uncle, Fyodor the Second. Or was it my thirteenth-great-uncle, Evgeni the First?” He pauses. “It was whichever one fought the bear. I can’t remember. Anyway, here is- Yuuri?”

Viktor turns, suddenly aware that Yuuri’s stopped following him. It’s only when he rejoins Yuuri that the candlelight fully illuminates the portrait that’s captured Yuuri’s attention. It’s an official portrait of the royal family--a king with a stern brow, a queen with sharp cheekbones, a prince with a practiced smile sitting between the two of them. He has his father’s piercing blue eyes and his mother’s long, silver hair, and an air of royalty that no one could mistake.

“Oh,” Viktor says, his nose scrunching up. “ _This._ ”

Yuuri tilts his head. “Huh? You don’t like it? It looks nice, though.”

“Ugh, I could barely stand it.” Viktor throws his head back in a show of over-dramatics that only he can get away with. “This portrait-sitting took _hours._ My cheeks hurt from smiling for days afterwards.”

That’s probably an exaggeration, Yuuri thinks. But still, now that Viktor’s drawn attention to it, the smile does look forced. “It doesn’t look like your usual smile, anyway,” Yuuri says. “Your real smile looks more like a heart.” He shoots a glance up at Viktor, whose face is bright in the candlelight.

And there’s his heart.

* * *

 

He’d been right about Viktor’s smile. Some sixteen years have passed, but Yuuri’s opinion hasn’t changed, especially now as he stands before the portrait. Sunlight is streaming through the windows, and Viktor was right about that, too; the library is magnificent at night, but its true glory shows when it’s bathed in gold. The morning light hits the portrait squarely, making Viktor’s blue eyes appear even brighter. But it can’t do the same for his smile.

He supposes that if he didn’t know Viktor, he wouldn’t think twice about it. The smile looks natural enough. It’s warm, delicate, kind--and Viktor is all those things. But there’s also a restraint to it that Yuuri just can’t reconcile with the Viktor he knows.

Just like Viktor’s bedroom, the library is much the same as Yuuri remembers it, save for one glaring exception: a newer portrait beside that of the family. Young Viktor sits alone in this one, his hair cut short, a crown placed precariously on his head. The flower crown really did suit him better, Yuuri thinks.

There’s no attempt at a smile in this portrait.

* * *

 

Viktor leads Yuuri out of the library and back into the dark corridor. “Come on, let’s go to the kitchens,” he says as they slink toward the staircase. “We might find some leftover pastries.” Yuuri’s stomach grumbles at the suggestion.

They’re halfway to the staircase when they overhear the quick patter of feet shuffling up the steps. Before Yuuri has a chance to react, Viktor grabs his wrist and pulls him into an alcove. He presses a finger to his own lips, as if Yuuri needed a reminder to be quiet. The footsteps grow louder, now accompanied by furious whispering.

“Oh, Her Grace is going to have our heads if we’re not there soon,” hisses a maid’s voice. Yuuri catches a glimpse of her and her companion as they scurry by, laden with large silver trays, and too frenzied to notice the two boys hiding in the wall’s recess.

The other maid commiserates, “What I would give for our old, kind duchess! This pregnancy has given her such a temper--and such odd cravings, too. Surely the kitchen staff is going as mad as we are.”

Viktor cranes his head out of the alcove, watching the maids until they turn the corner. Then he motions for Yuuri to follow again, and Yuuri has to will his body out of its terrified numbness.

The kitchens are worth the near miss, though, as Yuuri’s nostrils are greeted by the warm, enticing smell of stewed meat and freshly baked bread. Viktor sneaks what looks to be a bun from a counter and tears it in two, handing the larger half to Yuuri. It’s flaky and stuffed with warm meat, and Yuuri’s stomach grumbles again.

“Let’s walk and eat,” Viktor says, already weaving his way through the kitchen. “There’s one more thing I want to show you.”

* * *

 

As an official guest of Prince Viktor, Yuuri no longer has any need to slink down the palace corridors. He’s free to stroll proudly through them, enjoying the warmth of sunlight on his skin as it streams through the window, setting his own pace as he makes his way toward the staircase.

But he finds his breath short as he hurries through the corridor--not quickly enough to look suspicious, but also not quickly enough to miss the side glances and snide comments aimed toward him. He wants to disappear back into Viktor’s bedroom, back through the portal, far away from the palace’s prying eyes.

“The prince brought him back from his travels,” a maid whispers to another after Yuuri passes them. It’s loud enough that Yuuri wonders if she’d meant for him to hear it.

He can practically feel the eyes of the other maid boring into his back.

“ _Him?_ ”

A single word twists like a knife through his ribcage.

But Yuuri’s brisk stride doesn’t falter. He’s desperate for a way out, for somewhere to hide. He keeps his eyes drawn to the floor as he marches toward the staircase, trying his best to tune out the furious whispers around him. He doesn’t pause, even when a man’s voice, thick with an accent Yuuri hasn’t heard before, drawls, “Oh? Who’s this?”

Yuuri winds down the staircase, a quickly evident mistake in his effort to avoid other people, as he’s now pressed into an even tighter space with maids, servants, and other members of the palace staff. He swerves between them, catching even more affronted looks, but he has no choice but to keep going.

The warm smell of freshly baked bread assures him that he’s on the right path. He enters the kitchen, more bustling during the day than it had been on a quiet night over a decade-and-a-half ago, and spies a heaping pile of pastries on a counter. They resemble dumplings, though they’re breadier than the ones he typically eats at home. They would be tempting, Yuuri’s sure, if his stomach weren’t already swirling with things other than food.

So he forges through the kitchen, ignoring the confused stares of kitchen staff mid-recipe. His destination is so close; there’s no use in getting distracted now.

* * *

 

Viktor unlatches a small door, a humble one compared to those on the upper floors. But then, this one is meant for the kitchen staff and not young princes. He pushes it slightly ajar and a slip of chilly air seizes its opportunity to worm through the gap. Yuuri shivers as it shakes the kitchen’s warmth from his skin.

But any reservations he had about the cold are banished as Viktor opens the door fully, and Yuuri catches a glimpse of the wonder on the other side. Viktor turns toward him, a grin on his face as he ushers him through. “What do you think?”

Yuuri steps through the doorway, mouth agape as he regards the massive open-air ice rink. The ice gleams against the dark night, reflecting the yellow lights of the palace windows, and Yuuri wonders how beautiful it must look when they’re dimmed, illuminated only by the bright stars and decorative lanterns surrounding the rink. There’s a pleasant quiet out here; it’s not like the hushed, tenuous silence of the palace at night, but instead a more natural quiet that welcomes Yuuri rather than making him feel like an intruder.

It takes a few moments of slack-jawed staring before Yuuri remembers that Viktor had asked him a question. His voice is little more than an awed whisper: “It’s _beautiful._ It must be so amazing to skate here.” Then he frowns as he remembers, “I can’t skate, though.”

“I’ll teach you, then,” Viktor says. It’s enough to steal Yuuri’s attention from the ice rink, and he stares up at Viktor with wide eyes.

“Really?”

Viktor gives him an easy smile. “Promise. I think you’ll like it. At least, I really like it. Whenever I’m feeling particularly upset, I come here. Ice skating always seems to calm my nerves.”

Given Yuuri’s status as a walking, talking bundle of nerves, this is a pretty good selling point.

“Where would we skate, though?” he asks.

Viktor shrugs. “Is there anywhere near your home we can skate?”

The answer comes to Yuuri right away. “There’s a pond!” he exclaims before he can rein in his excitement. “It’s in a forest close to my house. Kids skate there all the time, and- and I’ve always wanted to join them, but I haven’t known _how_ and…” As he trails off, Viktor laughs.

“Okay. That settles it. Next winter, I’ll teach you how to skate. And _then_ ,” Viktor says, a broad smile on his face, “one day, we’ll skate on this rink together.”

Yuuri’s heart is so full, he feels like he could soar across the ice right now.

* * *

 

The sky is deep blue with dusk, but the ice still shines yellow. And there’s still a yearning in Yuuri’s chest to see it lit by the surrounding lanterns, rather than the too-bright palace windows. But he’s not complaining; the rink is mesmerizing regardless, just like everything else in Viktor’s land. His thorough tour of the palace has confirmed that much.

His stomach grumbles--he hasn’t eaten since this morning, save for a bun he grabbed the second time he passed through the kitchens--but the sound is overtaken by the crunch of snow behind him.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Viktor appears at Yuuri’s side, and a welcome warmth floods Yuuri’s bones.

“Sorry for disappearing all day. I tried to sneak away earlier, but Yakov and the palace staff have been understandably vigilant ever since...well, after…” He pauses, shoulders drooping. It’s unusual for Viktor to be at such a loss for words, and Yuuri watches him, wondering if he ought to offer something to fill the silence. But Viktor predictably recovers, adding, “I hope you weren’t too bored today.”

“Oh, not at all,” Yuuri reassures him. “I spent the day exploring the palace. It’s beautiful.” He sighs as his gaze falls on the rink again. “Especially _this._ ” Yuuri’s been touring the palace all day, and while no part of the palace is anything less than grand, he’s found himself drawn back to the rink a second time.

Viktor smiles. “I can’t argue with you there.” His attention lingers on Yuuri for a moment before he asks, “How long have you been out here? Those clothes can’t be warm enough. Here, take my scarf.” Before Yuuri can protest, Viktor’s draped his thick, green scarf around his neck.

Yuuri wasn’t really cold--he’s only been here for a few minutes, and competitive ice skating has acclimated him to cold temperatures--but he offers quiet thanks anyway. There are definitely worse things than having Viktor’s scarf hugging his shoulders.

“This cold must have killed my phone battery,” he mumbles, pulling the device out of his pocket. Sure enough, his battery percentage is in the single digits. “I hope I haven’t worried anyone at home. I left notes, but...well, it’s getting late. And my phone’s about to die. Phichit will probably be mad, prior warning or not.”

“He cares a lot about you,” Viktor observes.

Yuuri nods. “I guess he does. We only met three-and-a-half years ago, but...I can’t imagine my life without him now. He’s always been there for me, and sometimes I’m not totally sure why. Even though I couldn’t finish college, I know I wouldn’t have gotten as far as I did without his friendship.”

“You didn’t finish college?”

Yuuri tries not to wince, realizing what he just slip. He wishes he could change the subject, but Viktor’s curious gaze is already boring into him. Well, Yuuri relents, the explanation had to come sometime. He releases a drawn-out sigh, then begins:

“I really haven’t changed all that much since we were kids. When I got to college, I was still shy, and really nervous. Aside from Phichit, I didn’t make a lot of friends, and my schoolwork always messed with my anxiety. But I managed it, for the most part. But then my childhood dog died during my senior year, and I just...couldn’t take it anymore. It felt like everything was falling apart. I couldn’t focus on any of my work, I couldn’t sleep, and I was terrified of all the things that could go wrong, no matter how implausible they were. Phichit and my family begged me to take time off and go home, so...that’s what I did.” He shrugs. “And now I just feel useless.”

Yuuri shakes his head, unable to meet Viktor’s eyes. “I shouldn’t be dumping all this on you,” he says. “I’m sorry. You’ve been through so much worse over these past fifteen years. It must sound so petty, so _selfish_ , for me to be complaining about these things to you.”

“No.” The response comes quickly, and Yuuri’s breath pauses. He lifts his head to look at Viktor, bemusement clear on his face. Viktor asks, “Did these things hurt you, Yuuri?”

“Yes, but I-”

“Then that’s all there is to it. Don’t apologize for your feelings.” Viktor’s eyes meet his, bright and intense, and Yuuri fights his instinct to glance away. “We all have our own battles to fight, and we all emerge from them with new scars. In the end, does it matter how we got them?”

Instinct wins at last and Yuuri tears his gaze away, directing it toward the snowy ground as he murmurs, “How are you like this?” His cheeks are burning against the frigid air, and he suspects Viktor’s scarf is not solely to blame.

Viktor tilts his head. “Hm?”

“Nothing.” Yuuri shakes his head. “Thank you, Viktor.”

“Of course. I’m just glad you felt comfortable opening up to me.” Viktor’s silent for a moment as he looks at Yuuri, eyes appraising. Then he asks, “Have you eaten?”

“I took a bun from the kitchens a few hours ago,” Yuuri says. “But other than that, no.”

“Are you hungry?” A grumble from Yuuri’s stomach answers the question for him. He can feel his face flush, but Viktor only laughs. “That’s good. I’ve requested a feast for us.”

Of course he did. “Oh. Thank you. That...really isn’t necessary-”

“Nonsense. You were more than hospitable to me during my stay in your land. This is the least I can do in return.” Viktor drapes his arm over Yuuri’s shoulders as he leads them inside, and Yuuri casts a final glance at the ice rink before it’s obscured by the closing door. Viktor continues, “There will be a small audience, though. I hope you don’t mind.”

To tell the truth, Yuuri does mind. Small talk with strangers has never been his forté, and he really would have appreciated a quiet dinner with Viktor. But if Viktor could bear the past fifteen years, then Yuuri can bear one dinner. It’s the least he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Viktor probably would have forgotten to mention dragons.
> 
> Also, halfway through the story, whaaaat. (Except not really because the upcoming chapters are going to be longer than the first six.) Thanks as always for your kudos and comments! They always make me so happy to read! ^_^
> 
> See you next time at The Dinner Party™.


	7. Someone To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Someone To You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XeLaiL9tk68)

Yuuri already passed by the dining room on his tour of the palace earlier, when it was awash in sunlight from wall to ornate wall, but even that didn’t prepare him for its nighttime glory. Now the whole, grand room is illuminated by candles--lining the walls, centered on the table, adorning the most enormous chandelier he’s ever seen--that flood the entire space with warm yellow. But as much as Yuuri would like to admire the dining room, he can’t do so for long; there are a few pressing stares directed at him that demand his attention.

One of them belongs to Yurio, who looks as sullen as usual, and Yuuri’s surprised at the sliver of relief he feels at his presence. In this room full of strangers, at least he knows someone other than Viktor--even if that someone is currently shooting daggers at the two of them.

The other dinner attendees include a tall, dark-haired man who looks about Viktor’s age, and a pale, young woman with a shock of red hair. There’s a third guest, too, who Yuuri only becomes aware of when a voice purrs in his ear, “First you take my Viktor, and then you ignore me in the corridor! I’m hurt, Yuuri!”

Yuuri instinctively bolts from the source of the voice and nearly crashes into Viktor, who places a reassuring hand on his back. “Yuuri, this is Duke Christophe of the Land of Great Mountains,” he says. From a safe distance, Yuuri gets a better look at the man who’d so effectively snuck up on him; he’s young and good-looking, with a mop of blond curls sitting atop a dark undercut.

“ _His Grace_ , Duke Christophe of the Land of Great Mountains,” Christophe corrects him.

“You can call him Chris.” Viktor leads Yuuri to the dining table, pointedly ignoring the scowl he earns from Christophe as he adds, “He’s been staying here for the past few weeks to help plan for the coronation, and it’s one-hundred percent okay for you to ignore him.”

Viktor pulls out a chair at the corner of the table and motions for Yuuri to sit. Yuuri complies, and Viktor takes his own seat beside him at the head of the table. He glances around the room. “Where’s Yakov? I asked him to be here.”

The red-headed woman replies, “He retired early to bed because, I quote, ‘that oversized child has already deprived me of too much sleep, and who knows how much more I’ll lose once he finally gets that crown on his head.’”

“Oh.” Yuuri searches Viktor’s face for a reaction, but gleans nothing. Based on Viktor’s previous mentions of his uncle, this seems fairly typical for their relationship. Viktor says, “That’s a shame. I was hoping to introduce him to Yuuri. But at least you two are here.” He turns toward Yuuri. “These are my Uncle Yakov’s children, Georgi and Mila.”

“Ah, it’s...nice to meet you.” It’s strange to see Viktor’s cousins at last. For years they had been characters in Yuuri’s head, guest actors in Viktor’s anecdotes, but now they’re actually here. Or, Yuuri supposes, now _he’s_ actually here. “I’m Yuuri.”

Mila smirks. “We know. We’ve already heard _all_ about you.”

Warmth flushes into Yuuri’s cheeks, and he tries not to avert his eyes. He wonders whether they’ve heard more about him from Viktor or Yurio; he wonders which one of those would be worse. He peeps, “Oh _._ ”

To Yuuri’s relief, the awkwardness simmers down quickly, as the servers bring out more food than Yuuri has ever seen on a single table, and everyone busies themselves with filling their plates to the brim. There are so many dishes to choose from--and the food is all so delicious, rich, and heavy, that a satiated fatigue rapidly settles into Yuuri’s bones. He can’t imagine that the ramen shop in Hasetsu offers anything comparable to this, regardless of Viktor’s enamoration with the food of Yuuri’s world.

Right now, Viktor appears to be as lost in thought as Yuuri is. While Christophe and Mila exchange pointed jabs in some trite debate, Georgi laughing at their barbs and Yurio remaining as reticent as he’s been all through dinner, Viktor keeps his gaze leveled at his dinner plate, picking at his food but barely eating any. His eyes flick toward Yuuri, whose face goes red as he realizes he’s been caught staring.

Yuuri clears his throat and tries to strike up a conversation: “The, uh… The food is delicious.”

Viktor’s face brightens at once. “You like it? Thank goodness. I was so worried you might not, since it’s so different from what you had at home.”

“What?” This food is literally fit for a king, probably prepared by the best chefs in the land, and Viktor thought Yuuri would be _picky_ about it? Yuuri sputters, “Why wouldn’t I-? Do you really think my palate is so-” He stops as it dawns on him that this is exactly how he’d treated Viktor in his own world. He considers the absurdity of it and, without warning, erupts into laughter.

Viktor stares at him, lost to befuddlement. “Yuuri?” When Yuuri’s unable to rein in his laughter and reply, the corner of Viktor’s mouth quirks upward. He chuckles. “Yuuri? What’s so funny?”

Yuuri wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “Nothing. I, uh, just...never mind.” He swallows a giggle, trying to at least salvage his ability to speak. “Dinner was amazing. Give my compliments to the chef, please. I really enjoyed it.”

Viktor beams. “Absolutely, Yuuri.”

It’s only once Yuuri’s laughter has fully died down that he realizes the dining room has gone completely silent. He and Viktor have unwittingly drawn the rapt attention of everyone else at the table. Yuuri’s face burns, and he knows it’s no longer due to his laughing fit. Mila and Georgi’s gazes are trained on him, their expressions unabashedly intrigued. Christophe, meanwhile, has a single eyebrow raised, his lips curved into an unsettling smirk.

Yurio’s expression is unreadable, even as he rises abruptly from his seat and announces, “I’m going to bed.”

“This early?” Mila asks. Yuuri relaxes slightly, grateful to Yurio for diverting the room’s attention. “That’s unusual for you.”

Yurio doesn’t reply, just storms out of the dining room without another glance. Once he’s out of view, Georgi shakes his head and tuts. “He’s been in a temper all day.”

Mila rolls her eyes. “He’s _always_ in a temper.”

Christophe chimes in, “Well, he’ll be in a better mood once Prince Otabek arrives for the festivities. No offense, but that might be the best thing to come out of your coronation, Viktor.”

Viktor’s brow is ever-so-slightly furrowed, just enough for Yuuri to notice from his close proximity. “Right,” he says. It sounds hollow.

They conclude dinner shortly afterward, and Viktor and Yuuri stroll back to Viktor’s bedroom together. Here in the private apartments after dark, the corridors are mostly devoid of staff, allowing Yuuri to finally feel somewhat relaxed in the palace. It’s just him and Viktor now, _at last_. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Viktor notices it and matches it with his own. “What is it?”

Yuuri shakes his head, biting his lip. The smile stays affixed. “I’m just thinking, that’s all.”

“About what?”

“Nothing.”

“ _Yuuuuuuuri._ ”

Yuuri only laughs. He leans in toward Viktor, accidentally bumping their shoulders together, and says, “Dinner was delicious.”

“You’ve mentioned that a couple times now,” Viktor says, grinning despite the change in conversation.

“Well, it was.” Yuuri shrugs. “And it was nice to meet Chris and the rest of your family, too. They’re very kind.”

Viktor smirks. “You don’t have to lie, Yuuri.”

Yuuri gives Viktor’s arm a playful shove. “They are, really!” He pauses, then muses aloud, “Yurio was especially quiet at dinner, though. I wonder if something was bothering him?” It might be nothing, Yuuri acknowledges. Yurio usually acts as though life itself is bothering him.

They reach the bedroom and Viktor holds the door open for Yuuri. As he enters, Yuuri’s attention is immediately drawn to the armoire on the opposite wall, the portal inside both a beacon and a dispiriting reminder. Viktor heaves a sigh as he shuts the door behind them. “Yurio’s angry with me.”

“What?” Yuuri’s attention snaps back to Viktor. “Why?”

Viktor gives a shrug, and despite his efforts to appear nonchalant, Yuuri catches the weariness in his voice as he says, “Earlier today, after we came back, he lectured me on just how selfish I was for abandoning my people. He was right, of course. My duty is to them, and I went through the portal anyw-”

“He was wrong.” The words burst out of Yuuri, startling Viktor into silence. Yuuri’s brow furrows as he elaborates, “You didn’t know the portal was going to close when you stepped through it. And besides, haven’t you given your people so much of yourself already? You can’t beat yourself up over one slip-up.”

It earns a rueful huff of laughter from Viktor. “There’s been more than one slip-up.”

“So what? You don’t owe them your whole life, Viktor.” Yuuri regrets the words the moment they sneak out of his mouth. Recalling Viktor’s account of his parents’ passing, Yuuri can’t think of a worse way he could have phrased that sentence. He should have known better than to try to offer advice. The weight of Viktor’s silence is crushing, and Yuuri mutters, “Sorry. That was- I don’t really know anything about this. I, uh...I should probably go.”

“Oh.” Viktor’s brow knits together, his eyes unfocused on the carpet. “I had the staff set up a guest bedroom for you, unless you’d rather sleep here.”

“Oh. That’s...very kind of you. But I was actually planning on sleeping at home,” Yuuri says. Viktor visibly straightens, blue eyes flicking up to meet Yuuri’s.

“You’re not staying?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I told my family that I’d be back this evening. It’s already late. I can’t worry them too much.”

Viktor’s gaze goes distant again as he diverts it to the ground. “Of course,” he murmurs. “I understand.”

Yuuri’s chest aches at seeing Viktor so despondent. Desperate to bring some semblance of joy back to his face, Yuuri steps forward and takes Viktor’s hand in his own. “I’ll be back tomorrow!” he promises. “First thing in the morning, okay?”

Viktor lifts his eyes, and Yuuri’s unprepared for how they seem to bore through him, bright and intense. “How can you know that?” he asks, his voice strained. “How do you know this isn’t the last time I’ll see you?”

“I just...know. I can’t explain it. But you can feel it too, right?” Somehow it’s not a complete lie; he knows that he can’t promise anything, but there’s also an inexplicable part of him that’s insistent the portal will be open tomorrow morning. “This isn’t ending now.”

Yuuri swivels their hands so their pinky fingers are intertwined. “Here,” he says. “I promise I’ll be back tomorrow morning, okay? Nothing can break a pinky swear, so you don’t have to worry.”

The smallest hint of a smile graces Viktor’s face, and Yuuri’s finally able to relax.

He tenses up again when Viktor pulls their fingers to his lips and presses a kiss to Yuuri’s knuckle. Yuuri goes still. His mind goes blank. “There,” Viktor says. There’s more certainty to his voice now. “It’s official now. You have to come back.”

“O-of course!” Yuuri jerks his hand out of Viktor’s grip and twirls toward the wall, desperate to hide his furious blushing. “Tomorrow!” He swings the armoire doors wide open and scrambles in. “Thank you, Viktor! Good night!”

He just catches the quiet, “Good night, Yuuri,” before he slips through the portal. He collapses on the floor of his closet, his heart racing, pressing his overheated back against the cool wall. He remains there for several minutes, trying to regain some semblance of calm in the stillness of his dark bedroom.

He stares up at the ceiling, the same thought running through his mind over and over:

_Oh, you idiot._

 

Yuuri awakes the next morning slightly later than he planned, the sun already shining bright through his window. He jumps out of bed the moment his eyes open and scrambles toward the closet door. He breathes a sigh of relief as he spots the familiar blurriness at its back wall. The portal’s still there. His hunch hadn’t been wrong.

He checks it again after getting dressed, and again after brushing his teeth, and then again--just for good measure--before heading downstairs to inform Mari of his plans. Well, half of his plans. He’s not lying when he tells her that he’ll be spending the day with Viktor. He’s not sure if she fully believes him--with her perpetually unflappable demeanor, it’s always hard to tell--but she accepts it without argument anyway.

Yuuri shoots a text to Phichit, once again apologizing for his plans to be out of cell range for the day. Phichit’s response is predictably quick: “Okay. But I can’t help but feel like I’m being replaced! :(“

Yuuri’s fingers fly across the keyboard: “Not at all! No one could ever replace you.”

“:)”

A smile graces Yuuri’s lips at Phichit’s reply. He leaves his phone on his desk, reasoning that he hadn’t needed it yesterday in the Land of Ice and Snow, and then heads for the closet. Even after five unchecked minutes, the portal is still there. He releases another sigh.

Yuuri steps through the portal and pushes through the linens of Viktor’s armoire. To his surprise, the doors are already open. Viktor must have been expecting him. Or, at least, he hopes it’s Viktor who’s opened the armoire, and not some servant who’s about to have the living daylights scared out of them.

But of course it’s Viktor, who’s adorned in a bright, multi-layered outfit that makes Yuuri feel underdressed--and Yuuri had thought he’d assembled a nice outfit today, really. Viktor’s pacing the room, brow furrowed; as soon as Yuuri’s foot hits the floor, however, he pauses mid-stride. Blue eyes focus on Yuuri, and in an instant, Yuuri’s chin is pressed against Viktor’s shoulder as his chest fights for air.

Viktor’s embrace is crushing. It only eases when Yuuri returns it, murmuring in Viktor’s ear, “Is everything okay?”

Viktor’s voice is quiet: “It is now.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” Yuuri moves to pull away, but Viktor’s arms remain rigid.

“I was worried the portal would close before you had a chance to come through,” Viktor says. “I know it’s dumb. The portal was clearly open, but…” He trails off and Yuuri’s heart sinks. He should have known better than to worry Viktor; he would have felt the same had their situation been reversed. His heart takes another hit as he finally extricates himself from Viktor’s embrace and spots the fatigued lines running beneath his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says. “I should have arrived earlier.”

Viktor shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Yuuri’s going to worry about it anyway.

Viktor continues, “I’m afraid I won’t have much more time to spend with you this morning. It’s one appointment after another. I tried to pester Yakov to let me out of some of them, but he wouldn’t budge. But I was able to clear up some time in the afternoon! If you’re willing to stick around until then, of course.” His eyes are wide and bright, and Yuuri doesn’t think he could say no even if he wanted to. But he also can’t imagine a scenario in which he would refuse time with Viktor.

“Of course I will!” he replies. Viktor beams, and Yuuri’s heart swells at the sight of that grin; he’d fought so hard for it last night.

Viktor gestures to his nightstand, upon which is a silver tray overflowing with pastries and fruit. “I had the kitchens prepare a small breakfast selection for you,” he says, and Yuuri tries to stifle a laugh at the understatement. “I hope you can find something you like.”

Yuuri chuckles as he examines the plate. “I think I’ll be able to find something.” He selects a crispy pastry that’s heavy with cream filling. There’s a satisfying crunch as he bites into it. “So good!” He just remembers to cover his mouth with his hand to achieve some semblance of politeness.

Viktor’s smile is radiant. “Is it? I’m so glad. Eat as much as you like, Yuuri. They’re all yours.” Even on his worst stress-eating days in college, Yuuri doesn’t think he could have finished even half of the tray. But he nods anyway, thanking Viktor more articulately once he’s swallowed his mouthful of food. Viktor downplays the gesture before asking, “What are you planning on doing this morning? I can give you some suggestions if you’re not sure.”

“Hm. Maybe I’ll explore the grounds,” Yuuri muses. “I didn’t get a chance to see them yesterday.”

“Are you sure? It might be too cold.”

Yuuri shrugs. “I think I’ll be fine.”

But Viktor’s unconvinced. His gaze lands on Yuuri, scrutinizing, before he promptly strides out of the bedroom. Yuuri pauses his eating, nonplussed until Viktor returns with a heavy, wool cloak. It’s mostly white, but as Viktor drapes it along his bed, Yuuri notices the swaths of red decorating the shoulders and arms. “There,” Viktor says. “You should borrow this.”

“Oh. Thank you. It looks...very warm.” Yuuri’s tempted to reach out and touch the cloak, but his hands are currently covered in pastry crumbs, and that cloak looks expensive.

“It’s the best wool the Land of Ice and Snow has to offer, and we know a thing or two about dealing with cold weather. Plus, it’s very fashionable.”

Yuuri laughs. “That’s the most important bit, isn’t it?”

Viktor grins. “Naturally.”

There’s a knock at the doors and the smile drops from Viktor’s face. “I have to go,” he says, his tone more contrite than Yuuri thinks it deserves to be. “But I’ll see you this afternoon, okay?”

Yuuri nods, waving goodbye as Viktor disappears into the corridor with an attendant, shooting one last glance at Yuuri before the doors shut behind him.

Yuuri finishes the last of the pastry and licks his fingers. He eyes Viktor’s cloak on the bed. He looked conspicuous enough yesterday, an obvious foreigner stumbling his way through the palace, and wearing the prince’s cloak is only going to worsen that. But Viktor offered it to him, and it _had_ been chilly out by the ice rink yesterday; potential embarrassment aside, it doesn’t make sense to reject the offer. So he swings the cloak over his shoulders, revelling in its warmth. It’s the perfect garment--toasty, cozy, and _Viktor’s._

He internally chastises himself for how satisfied that last bit makes him.

The palace grounds are coated with fresh snow, save for the occasional evergreen branch peeking out amid the white. The air is crisp, and there’s a solace to the silence out here, away from the court’s prying eyes. There’s a refreshing stillness to winter, and Yuuri suspects it must be an immutable characteristic of the palace grounds, graced by eternal snowfall.

At least, that’s what Yuuri thinks until the silence breaks, shattered by a sing-song, “Oh, Yuuuuuri!”

Yuuri pauses mid-step, turning in the direction of the voice. He spots a blot of bright red hair against an all-white background, as well as the blond, smirking man beside her. Yuuri waits for Mila and Chris to catch up to him.

“Hey,” he greets them. “Are you two out for a walk, too?”

Mila ignores his question entirely, sporting a mischievous grin as she says, “That’s a cute cloak, Yuuri.”

Yuuri ducks his head in an effort to hide his blush, twisting the cloak’s hem in his fingers as he pretends to study it. “Oh. Thanks.”

Chris’ smirk hasn’t wavered since he first spotted Yuuri. “It’s Viktor’s, isn’t it?”

Yuuri sighs. “Is it that obvious?”

Mila crosses her arms. “Well, those are our royal colors. He hasn’t exactly gone for subtlety.”

“When have you ever known Viktor to be subtle?” Chris scoffs. His gaze travels up and down Yuuri, appraising him. “Well, subtlety or not, at least he’s made you look more like one of us. Your style really, uh...how do I put this politely? Stands out.”

“What do you mean?” Granted, Yuuri’s never been a fashionable dresser, but he thought the sweaters and pants he’d chosen today and yesterday looked nice. Maybe this was what the maid was referring to when she offered him a change of clothes yesterday.

“Look, I’m not saying this might not be fashionable in whatever land you come from,” Chris is quick to amend. “But you definitely don’t blend in here.” His eyes go wide. “You should let me give you a makeover someday! Especially since-”

“Don’t think you can just sneak by us, Yurio!” Mila interrupts. Yuuri follows her gaze to a couple yards away, where Yurio has frozen mid-walk, not unlike a startled cat. His lips curls.

“Since when do _you_ call me that?”

Mila shrugs. “Since Viktor told me that was your new nickname.”

“It’s _not_ ,” he snarls as he approaches them. “Besides, I was the first Yuri here! If anyone’s getting a nickname, it should be _him!_ ” He jabs a finger in Yuuri’s direction.

“True,” Mila concedes with a grin. “But I have a feeling he won’t be as adorably angry about it as you.” Yurio scowls, and Mila teases, “Aw, don’t look so sad. Would it make you feel better if I lifted you up in the air like I used to?”

“No!” Yurio leaps back to a safe distance. Still eyeing his cousin suspiciously, he announces, “I’m going skating! None of you are invited.”

_Skating?_ As Yurio stomps away, Yuuri spies the skates dangling over his shoulder.

“Wait!” Yuuri calls, jogging after him. He barely remembers to wave goodbye to Chris and Mila, who are still in stitches over Yurio’s irascibility. “Yurio, please wait!” To his credit, Yurio at least doesn’t increase his pace, allowing Yuuri to catch up to him. Between breaths, Yuuri asks, “You can skate?”

Yurio rolls his eyes. “Piggy, everyone here can skate.”

“Piggy?”

“If I’m getting a shitty nickname, then so are you.”

Yuuri can’t argue with that line of reasoning. So he asks, “Do you mind if I come with you?”

“Piggy, I don’t care _what_ you do.”

It’s maybe the best answer he could have hoped for.

Yurio leads them to the edge of the palace grounds, beyond a manicured line of snow-capped evergreen bushes. Awaiting on the other side is an iced over pond, sparkling under a fresh dusting of snow. It’s perfect, Yuuri marvels, noting the distinct absence of other people in the area. He’s felt suffocated ever since he arrived at the palace, but now he feels as though he can breathe again.

Yurio’s already lacing up his skates. He doesn’t so much as look at Yuuri, only making some snarky comment about Yuuri watching rather than skating before he steps onto the ice. If Yuuri had any doubt that Viktor and Yurio were related, it’s vanished in an instant; for all their differences in personality, they both look more natural on the ice than anyone Yuuri’s ever seen. Yurio looks every bit an indelible part of this winter landscape as Viktor does, gliding across the ice with the same grace as his older cousin.

Yurio spins, he jumps, he traces elegant circles into the ice’s surface, and Yuuri never pulls his attention away. He’d thought it impossible for anyone to skate with the same beauty and ease as Viktor, but Yurio is a worthy competitor. There’s a practiced pattern to his movements, almost as if he’s skating to a routine, following a tune that only he can hear. Yuuri remembers the feeling from his competition days--muscle memory carrying him even when his nerves drowned out his music--but he doubts he ever looked as confident as Yurio does now.

It’s almost a bitter moment when Yurio finally steps off the ice, and all his grace vanishes in favor of his usual sourness.

“That was amazing,” Yuuri says as Yurio kneels down to untie his laces.

Yurio shrugs. “Thanks.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone skate as beautifully as you and Viktor do.”

Yurio harrumphs as he stands up, feet ensconced in his tall boots. He swings his skates over his shoulder. “That’s because his royal laziness spends all his time skating instead of performing his royal duties.”

Yuuri trails slowly behind Yurio as they leave the pond. Recalling his conversation with Viktor last night, Yuuri says, “You think he’s selfish.”

Yurio’s answer is resolute: “He _is_ selfish.”

“How?”

Yuuri readies himself for a tirade, or at least a snide retort, but Yurio only sighs as he pauses on the path. Yuuri waits a couple feet behind him. At last, Yurio says, “He has an entire nation depending on him, a people who have been steadfastly waiting for their young prince to become a king, ever since an illness stole their previous one. And Yakov’s fine, but he’s old. He’s not the one they want, the one they’ve been hoping for ever since that sickness devastated our land. It’s too bad for Viktor that he got stuck with a job he’s not fit for, but it’s his responsibility. And he’s just...never been interested.”

Yuuri argues, “He’s more interested than you think. He _tries_ , really, and-”

“ _Trying_ isn’t enough,” Yurio snaps. “Not if he’s unwilling to commit to it. Our people deserve better than that.” He trudges on again, heaving another sigh as he concedes, “Look, I’m not saying it’s fair. I know he didn’t sign up for this. But so long as he has a job, he ought to do it, don’t you think?”

Yuuri keeps his lips pressed together, resisting the urge to defend Viktor again. After all, he doesn’t know this land like Yurio does. He doesn’t even know what most of Viktor’s duties are. And in any case, the past two minutes have revealed Yurio to be more insightful than Yuuri had given him credit for.

Yurio grumbles, “Come on, piggy, let’s get back to the palace. We don’t want Viktor having a panic attack because he can’t find you.”

Insightful as he may be, Yurio’s still an angry fifteen-year-old at his core.

 

Yuuri eats lunch alone that afternoon, which would have felt pathetic enough even without the feast lining the dining table. When Yuuri failed to mask his bafflement over the absurd amount of food, a server explained that Viktor had personally ordered the meal for him, which only left Yuuri more confused. Viktor’s eaten meals with Yuuri before. Does he really expect him to eat an entire feast by himself?

Despite his more logical side, Yuuri still can’t help his guilt over all the food he leaves uneaten on the table. Maybe the leftovers will go to the palace staff, he tries to console himself. That’s what his family’s always done with extra food at the resort, anyway. But this isn’t exactly his family’s humble onsen, he reminds himself, shoulders slumping as he prepares to head out of the dining room. As he walks, his eyes admire the doorway’s ornate woodwork, dyed in a bright red and carved into fine, intricate patterns.

He’s so focused on the woodwork that he nearly walks face first into Viktor, whose hands fly to Yuuri’s shoulders, steadying him as he wobbles backward. Yuuri opens his mouth to apologize for his absentmindedness, but Viktor has his own greeting at the ready.

“Ah, Yuuri! I’m so glad I found you! How was your morning? Did you enjoy your meal?”

Viktor releases Yuuri’s arms at last, and Yuuri scratches the back of his neck, sheepish under the attention. “My morning was good! I saw Chris and Mila, and Yurio too… And the meal was also good! Very, uh...filling.”

Viktor beams. “I’m happy to hear that.” He takes a step back from the doorway and motions for Yuuri to follow. “Would you like to join me for a stroll? I’d love to hear more about your morning.”

Yuuri keeps to Viktor’s side as they head through the corridors, their shoulders close but not quite bumping. Yuuri’s tempted to close the distance, or to forego the subtlety altogether and link his fingers with Viktor’s, but he reminds himself that they’re not in Hasetsu anymore, and that there are plenty more prying eyes here. He’ll bear their judgment, but he won’t direct it at Viktor, too.

Maintaining that slight distance, he asks Viktor, “What about your morning? I’m sure things have been very exciting with the coronation coming up.”

Viktor gives a wry smile. “You say that only because you’ve never had to prepare for a coronation. Trust me, your morning was far more interesting, especially if Chris, Mila, and Yurio were involved.” He tilts his head toward Yuuri. “I hope none of them gave you a hard time.”

Aside from Chris’ brutally honest assessment of his fashion taste and Yurio’s unmasked disdain for him, their interactions were mostly pleasant. “They didn’t,” Yuuri says. “Why? Was that a concern of yours?”

Viktor shrugs. “They have good intentions--most of the time, anyway--but I know they can be overbearing at times, particularly if you aren’t used to their antics.”

Yuuri laughs and nudges Viktor’s arm. “That sounds a lot like you.”

Viktor’s eyes go wide for a moment before he breaks into a fit of laughter. Yuuri’s tension washes away, a smile blossoming on his face, and for once, he doesn’t care about the stares of the palace staff. They can offer Viktor their loyalty and servitude, but Yuuri’s given Viktor laughter, and that feels like so much more.

Together they stroll through the palace grounds, still white with the same snow from that morning. The temperature hasn’t warmed enough for it to melt, and while Yuuri’s still taken with the pristine landscape, he’s also grateful to still have Viktor’s cloak to shield him from the cold.

Viktor’s offering detailed descriptions of all the monuments they pass on their walk--busts featuring legendary heroes, statues memorializing long-dead royals, stone engravings commemorating friendships with other lands--and Yuuri half-listens, too distracted by the two guards shadowing them. Viktor hardly seems aware that they’re there, but Yuuri can’t help feeling that their presence has put a damper on an otherwise pleasant walk with Viktor. Because it _is_ pleasant, really; Viktor’s here, and the grounds are beautiful and there’s really no other reason for Yuuri to complain--except that the whole thing feels so impersonal, so public. He’d taken for granted his time alone with Viktor back in his own world, but maybe he should have expected this.

Regardless, hindsight doesn’t make the guards’ presence any less disconcerting.

“This monument was presented as a gift by the Land of Great Mountains,” Viktor says, stopping before a marble sculpture of snow-capped mountains. “They’re our oldest ally, and our closest. This was created to commemorate the one-thousandth year of our alliance.”

“That’s where Chris is from, isn’t it?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor nods. “He practically lives here, though. His cousin, King Stéphane, made him a top diplomat to our land when he ascended to the throne--a very obvious attempt to establish himself in my good graces. Aside from his ability to hobnob, Chris has no real diplomatic credentials.”

“You two are close,” Yuuri observes, slightly ashamed of the pang of jealousy in his chest.

“Of course. While the illness was sweeping through our land, my cousins and I were sheltered at the Land of Great Mountains’ royal palace. Chris and I were closest in age, and we quickly became friends.” Viktor shrugs. “He may as well be family now.”

“Oh.” The jealousy dissipates in Yuuri’s chest, replaced instead by a rush of warmth. “I’m glad you had him.” Curious, blue eyes suddenly focus on him, bright beneath a furrowed brow, and a blush fills Yuuri’s cheeks. He tries to explain, “Back when we were kids, you always seemed so lonely. I mean, you had Makkachin and me, but...I’m glad you made a friend in your own world, especially after the portal closed.”

Viktor’s bemused expression relaxes to a smile. “Thank you, Yuuri.” His voice is soft as he adds, “I still missed you, though.”

Guilt knots in Yuuri’s chest. He wishes he could tell Viktor that he missed him, too; technically he wouldn’t be lying, though it would only be true for the first few months after the portal’s disappearance. He wishes he could tell Viktor that he hadn’t forgotten about his existence for the majority of the past fifteen years. But he can’t, and he quickly changes the subject.

“Will the rest of the Land of Great Mountains’ royal family be attending the coronation?”

The smile vanishes from Viktor’s face, and his voice picks up a somber note as he replies, “Ah. Yes, they’ll be arriving tomorrow.” He turns away from the statue, motioning for Yuuri to follow. “Come, let’s visit a different monument.”

Despite his best efforts, Yuuri’s made Viktor upset anyway.  He’s not even sure how he managed it this time. All he knows is that there’s something fundamentally wrong about Viktor being unhappy, and all Yuuri wants is to spark that laughter in him once again.

Yuuri opts not to follow Viktor, instead leaning over to scoop up a clump of snow. He packs it into a tight ball, the chill of it stinging his fingers, and promptly lobs it at Viktor. It hits him squarely in the back of the head and Yuuri winces. He’d hoped for lower, but his aim is apparently as bad as it’s always been. He opens his mouth to apologize, but is interrupted by a chorus of, “ _HEY!_ ”

The guards charge toward him and Yuuri’s entire body tenses, readying itself for the coming impact. Both guards are nearly twice his side; he’ll be snapped like a twig, and for what? A snowball? That’s a terrible way to go.

“ _Wait!_ ” Viktor’s voice pierces through the commotion, and the guards fall back at once. Yuuri takes a shuddering breath as he looks to Viktor, who’s walking toward him with narrowed eyes. “That’s not necessary. Yuuri was just playing a little joke, weren’t you, Yuuri?” Yuuri’s quick to nod. “Besides,” Viktor continues, bending over to collect his own handful of snow, “I can fight my own battles.”

Yuuri narrowly dodges the snowball that whizzes by his ear. He hears Viktor mutter a curse, but he doesn’t give him time to say anything else. He packs together a new snowball and hurls it at Viktor, who jumps out of the way just in time. “Ha!” Viktor exclaims. “You missed, t-” Another snowball hits him directly in the shoulder. He stares at it for a moment, then draws his eyes up toward Yuuri, a familiar smirk on his face. “Oh, you’re going to regret that.”

It doesn’t take long for both of them to amass an impressive artillery of snowballs. Yuuri carries his own in the crook of his arm, trying not to drop any as he swerves between evergreen bushes in a desperate effort to avoid Viktor’s snowy onslaught. To his luck, Viktor’s aim is nearly as terrible as his own; the guards, he thinks, might not feel as fortunate, having sustained some friendly fire from their prince. As if Yuuri needed to give the palace staff more reasons to resent him.

Yuuri crouches behind a manicured hedge as he hears snow crunch on the other side. “Oh, Yuuuuuri,” Viktor sings from just behind him. Yuuri clutches the snowballs closer to his chest. “Where are you? Ah, maybe you’re right…” A dusting of snow sprinkles from the hedge as Viktor leans over it, smiling down at Yuuri with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Here.”

Yuuri rolls away just before a multitude of snowballs rain down over the hedge, his feet taking the brunt of the hit. He’ll regret his poor choice of winter footwear later, when the snow’s melted and drenched his socks. For now, he’s focused on retaliation. He’s lost most of his snowballs in the assault, but Yuuri makes do with what he has left, rapidly lobbing his full arsenal at Viktor. Viktor dodges the first few, but eventually has to bring his arms to his face, shielding it from the last of Yuuri’s attack. Once Yuuri’s drained his artillery, he makes a dash around the hedge, ready to evade Viktor’s revenge.

Thing is, Viktor does the exact same thing, and the two of them collide at the corner of the hedge, shoulders and hips knocking together as they fall. The soft snow catches them, Yuuri’s hands and knees plunging into it like a cold pillow.

“Your Highness!” The guards begin to rush over, but Viktor stops them with a wave of his hand. He’s on his back beside Yuuri, his head resting in the snow.

“I’m fine,” he reassures them. He sits up and turns his gaze on Yuuri. “Are you okay?”

Yuuri nods, unsure as to why Viktor’s asking _him._ He at least caught his fall. He reaches out his arm and absentmindedly brushes the snow from Viktor’s hair. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks.

“Absolutely.” Viktor’s hand catches Yuuri’s and gently pulls it from his hair. Their fingers remain intertwined as Viktor reaches another hand toward Yuuri, pausing just inches from his cheek. “Yuuri,” he murmurs, and Yuuri’s face burns against the winter air.

The flame is doused as a handful of snow smashes into the side of Yuuri’s face. Viktor breaks into a raucous bout of laughter, clutching at his shaking sides. “S-sorry, Yuuri,” he sputters out between chuckles. Yuuri wipes the snow from his face, still processing what just happened. “That was a dirty trick. I-”

Yuuri shoves Viktor back down, undoing his efforts from earlier as Viktor’s hair submerges beneath the snow. But Viktor doesn’t seem to mind, his entire body still shaking with laughter. Satisfied with his revenge, Yuuri takes Viktor’s hand and helps him up, allowing himself to be overtaken by laughter as well. He missed this earlier. Viktor’s joy shouldn’t be limited by mundane duties, or merely hinted at in practiced, perfect smiles; it’s most beautiful in its unbridled form, and Yuuri wants nothing more than to keep it--to keep Viktor--here in this moment, where both are allowed to be free.

His finger finds Viktor’s hair whorl, once again seemingly of its own accord, but there’s no awkwardness to follow it this time. Viktor’s laughter tempers to a broad smile. There’s a softness in his eyes as he gazes up at Yuuri, and Yuuri thinks he could melt into them. Into _him_.

In lieu of that, he raises an eyebrow and teases, “Race you back to the palace?”

A corner of Viktor’s smile crooks further upward, turning it mischievous. “Anything to lose these guards.”

Without warning, Yuuri pushes Viktor into the snow again, seizing his opportunity for a head start. As he races across the palace grounds, snow sinking into his already drenched shoes, Viktor calls, “ _Hey!_ That’s cheating!”

Despite the sharp sting of winter air against his teeth, Yuuri can’t fight the smile dominating his face.

 

It’s not until dinner that Yuuri fully banishes the chill from his bones, thanks to the cozy warmth of the dining room. His hand hovers over his cup of tea, fingers dancing in the steam. A few cookies and small pastries remain uneaten on his plate through deliberate effort; he has a hunch that proper royal guests don’t typically gobble up their desserts in one go.

He’s surrounded by the same crew as last night, still short Viktor’s uncle, whom Viktor hadn’t even inquired after tonight. Yuuri suspects that his attendance may have been wishful thinking on Viktor’s part. But the conversation is bright and lively nonetheless. Even Yurio seems less sour than he had been last night. Yuuri wonders if he can attribute that to his skating earlier today.

The mood breaks, however, when an attendant slips into the room and whispers into Viktor’s ear. Yuuri keeps his eyes trained on his plate, trying not to look like he’s listening in.

He is, of course, listening in, but the attendant’s voice is too low for him to glean any useful information until Viktor arises from his seat and announces, “Ah, my apologies, but there’s a matter I have to attend to. I’ll be back shortly.” He takes a step away from the table, then pauses, and lightly presses his fingers against Yuuri’s shoulder. His voice is soft as he asks, “Wait for me?”

Yuuri can’t fathom why Viktor thinks he had any plans to leave yet, but he nods anyway. Viktor casts him a smile before exiting the dining room. Yuuri’s shoulder still tingles from the touch.

Across the table, Chris rests his chin in his hand and sighs. “I don’t envy him. All this planning for the coronation is beyond maddening. And it’s so _boring_ , too.”

Yuuri swallows a bite of a pastry. It’s light and airy, not unlike a marshmallow, with a piquant layer of thick jam on the inside. “You think it has something to do with the coronation?”

Chris laughs, though there’s a note of defeat to it. “ _Everything_ is about the coronation right now. Which reminds me, Mila, have you picked out an outfit for the ball yet?”

_The ball?_

Mila taps her finger on her chin. “I’ve narrowed it down to three. I think I’ll need your advice at tomorrow’s fitting, or else I’ll never decide in time.”

Beside her, Georgi chuckles. “You’re going to drive our poor tailor insane.” He claps his hand on his chest. “ _I_ decided what I’ll be wearing weeks ago. It’s an outfit based on an old tale of a sleeping prince. It’s a beautiful, _heart-wrenching_ story of betrayal and lost love.”

The inspiration is obvious to everyone including Yuuri, who isn’t even familiar with the context. After a collective awkward pause, Yurio bursts out laughing, pointing a finger at Georgi as he clutches his side with his other hand. “That’s so stupid! Oh my gosh!”

Chris shakes his head. “It is, uh...rather dramatic, don’t you think?”

Mila looks as though she might offer some sympathy, but her reply is blunt: “Anya’s never getting back with you, Georgi.”

Georgi smacks his hands against the table. “You don’t know that!” He crosses his arms and slumps against his chair, emulating to a tee the usual behavior of his youngest cousin, who’s still rolling with laughter in his seat.

Taking advantage of the break in conversation, Yuuri hazards a hesitant, “There’s going to be a ball?”

Chris turns his attention to him and blinks in surprise. “Of course. It’s traditional for any major ceremony. Didn’t Viktor invite you?”

“Invite me?” Something worrisome churns in Yuuri’s chest, but he chooses to ignore it. “No, he… He hasn’t even mentioned it.”

Chris’ brow furrows, and while Yuuri draws his gaze to the table, he doesn’t miss the glance shared between Chris and Mila. “Strange,” is all Chris has to offer.

Viktor returns not a minute later, comfortably settling back into his seat at the head of the table. “So,” he says, plucking two more cookies from a silver tray, “what did I miss?”

A corner of Chris’ mouth quirks up into a smile Yuuri doesn’t trust. “We were just discussing the b-”

“This food is delicious!” Yuuri interjects, stealing a cookie from Viktor’s plate for emphasis. Viktor doesn’t seem to mind; rather, his smile only brightens as Yuuri babbles on, “I think this meal is even better than last night’s! You’ll have to weasel this cookie recipe from the chefs. I can’t get enough!”

Viktor’s grin is almost blinding. “I’m sure I can arrange something with the kitchens.” He shovels more cookies off the tray and onto Yuuri’s plate, forming an impossibly high stack of sweets. “Here, have as much as you like!”

Yuuri stares at the absurd mountain of cookies Viktor’s dumped on his plate and immediately regrets his previous course of action.

There’s a screech of chair legs on wood as Yurio shoves himself away from the table. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he says, doing nothing to mask his grimace. “Good night, everyone. I’ll puking my dinner out in a bathroom if you need me.”

As Yuuri watches Yurio leave the dining room, his gaze catches Chris’. Chris’ eyes are narrowed, calculating, as they regard Yuuri, his lips pressed together in an unreadable expression. Yuuri glances away. His abrupt diversion of the conversation was suspicious, he’s aware of that. But Viktor didn’t mention the ball to him for a reason. The last thing he wants is for Viktor to be forced to reveal that reason in front of the whole table. Yuuri can speculate at the painful truth; he doesn’t need to hear it laid bare, and in public no less.

He’s suddenly aware of Viktor’s fingers grazing his knuckles, and he lifts his eyes to meet Viktor’s blue ones. His heart flutters at the feather light touch, and he silently admonishes it for its naïve optimism. It really ought to know better at this point. _He_ ought to know better. But Viktor’s smiling at him so kindly, so genuinely now, that in spite of Yuuri’s conflicting feelings, the smile he returns is just as sincere.

 

Yuuri’s stomach feels close to bursting as he and Viktor retreat to Viktor’s bedroom. He’s eaten more cookies tonight than any person should, all in an effort to back up a poorly chosen lie. He rubs at his aching food baby as Viktor holds the bedroom doors open for him. The armoire doors are closed, but Yuuri swears he can sense the portal looming behind them, once again stirring a confusing mix of feelings in his chest.

He opens one of the doors, just to be sure, and spots the uncanny blur of the portal behind Viktor’s dangling clothes. He doesn’t plan on going through just yet--he still has to thank Viktor for dinner and wish him good night and find other ways to drag his feet--but Viktor’s hand clasps his with an urgency that suggests he was about to bound through.

He allows Viktor to lead him away from the portal and across the room. Viktor’s voice is soft: “Don’t go.” It’s dressed as a command, but Yuuri doesn’t miss its pleading tone.

“I’ll come back,” Yuuri promises, trying to suppress his blush. The backs of Viktor’s knees hit the bed and he abruptly sits down, eyes still gazing imploringly up at Yuuri. Yuuri gulps. “I came back this morning. I’ll be here tomorrow, too.”

But his words have little effect on Viktor, who only drops his gaze as he yanks Yuuri closer. There’s no use in trying to hide his blush now. Yuuri lifts his free hand to thread through Viktor’s soft, silver strands of hair, and Viktor leans his forehead into Yuuri’s chest. They could stay like this, Yuuri thinks. It would be nice. It is nice. It’s warm.

But it’s also ephemeral, whatever they have right now, and they both know that. Viktor has a legacy to build, and Yuuri’s bound to occupy only a footnote in it. It’s foolish for him to let his hopes up, to feed that bright kindling his chest, for his heart to beat as recklessly as it does right now.

Viktor uses his free hand to grip the fabric of Yuuri’s shirt, as though that will be enough to keep Yuuri from leaving. “Please don’t go.”

Yuuri twirls a lock of silver hair around his finger. “I have to. Besides, where would I stay?”

“Here.” Yuuri’s hand freezes, the lock falling back to Viktor’s head. “Just, please…” Viktor heaves a sigh, and Yuuri can feel the damp exhale cling to his shirt. “Stay close to me.”

Yuuri tries and fails to ignore the heat rising in his face, the jumble of words running through his head. Surely Viktor doesn’t mean it like that. He hasn’t even mentioned the ball to Yuuri; clearly he doesn’t want him there. Their relationship--if Yuuri can even call it that--is confined to these moments, light touches and shared silences, easy laughter and overdue confessions. But that’s all it is. That’s all it can be. Yuuri’s fragile heart can’t afford to speculate that it could be something more, or that Viktor would even want it to be.

He pulls away suddenly, though not enough to tear his hand from Viktor’s. For as long as time will allow him, he wants to cling to this lifeline. Viktor’s eyes follow him, blue and uncertain. “I’ll come back,” Yuuri assures him. “I promise.”

Viktor’s silent as his hand finally slips from Yuuri’s, casting his gaze downward as he concedes a weak nod. A familiar emptiness fissures open in Yuuri’s chest, its edges singed and smoldering. He offers a meager good night to Viktor, who returns one even more mumbled. The last thing Yuuri sees before he slips through the portal is Viktor’s forlorn expression, and he knows he’ll spend the remainder of the night trying to forget it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Family dinners are always a little awkward, especially when you belong to the Russian Skate Fam.
> 
> Thanks for all your patience these past few weeks! I know this chapter took a while, but I hope it was worth the wait. :)


	8. Colour Me In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Colour Me In](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WkO931f4huA)

Yuuri’s stomach grumbles as it’s circled by a loop of measuring tape. His face goes red as he averts his eyes from the tailor, who fortunately looks too consumed in his work to care about Yuuri’s hunger. He tightens the measuring tape, and Yuuri sucks in a yelp. This can’t bode well for the outfit’s final measurements, he thinks; how small does the tailor expect his stomach to be in a day’s time?

Never mind that he probably shouldn’t be wearing the outfit in question anyway, seeing as he hasn’t actually been invited to the ball. But somehow Chris coerced him into the parlor, conveniently omitting the part of the explanation that would have explicitly mentioned ball clothes; Yuuri had believed he would be trying on a new outfit to better fit in at the palace. He glares across the parlor at the source of his current misery, who’s watching him intently, one hand still holding the pastry Yuuri had hoped to eat at least twenty minutes ago. His stomach grumbles again. The tailor doesn’t even blink.

“Will there really be enough time to prepare my clothes?” Yuuri asks. “One day seems like awfully short notice.”

Chris shrugs. “The outfit’s mostly finished anyway. It just needs to be tailored to your body. Besides,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, “our tailor loves a challenge.”

The flash of despair on the tailor’s face suggests otherwise.

Yuuri sighs. “Can I at least see the outfit? I’d like to at least know what I’m getting into.”

“You can try it on tonight,” Chris says. He tilts his head, mimicking Yuuri’s displeasure with an exaggerated pout. “Oh, don’t look so concerned. I think you’ll like it.” He winks. “Viktor will, too.”

Yuuri’s face flushes, though he’s not sure whether it’s more from embarrassment or indignance. “He hasn’t even invited me, though!” His arms fly up and the tailor firmly yanks them back down, stretching the measuring tape from shoulder to shoulder. “What if he doesn’t want me there?”

“Why wouldn’t he want you there?”

Yuuri can think of about a million reasons why, but he keeps them to himself. Instead he reiterates, “He _hasn’t_ invited me. I don’t want to intrude-”

“Stop.” Chris thrusts out his hand, pointing the pastry toward Yuuri. “Breathe. You’re overthinking things. It’s possible he just forgot to tell you. There’s a thousand things on his plate right now, and the ball has probably taken lowest priority. But look, I know Viktor, and I know he’d be nothing short of delighted if you attended.”

When Yuuri doesn’t reply, Chris sighs. “Fine, you still don’t believe me. So why don’t you bring it up with Viktor when you see him later? And after that, you can apologize for doubting me and being grumpy throughout this whole thing.”

A significant part of Yuuri’s grumpiness can be attributed to the pastry waving around in Chris’ hand.

The tailor’s measuring Yuuri’s feet--thankfully the final part of this whole miserable ordeal--when Mila and Georgi practically waltz into the parlor. Yurio trails in after them, back hunched and overall looking considerably less enthusiastic than his cousins. He raises an eyebrow as he spots Yuuri.

“What are you doing here?”

Chris answers on Yuuri’s behalf. “He’s getting measured for his ball clothes.”

Yurio’s eyebrow rises even higher. “You’re going to the ball?”

After spending most of the morning puzzled by Chris’ overconfidence, it’s refreshing to find someone just as perplexed as Yuuri is. He shrugs. “I guess?”

“Of course he is,” Chris is quick to add. His gaze narrows on Yurio. “The real question is, what are _you_ doing here? I’ve never seen you arrive this early for a fitting.” Before Yurio has a chance to retort, Chris snaps his fingers. “Ah! Prince Otabek’s slated to arrive in a couple hours, isn’t he? I suppose that if I only had one friend, I’d want to spend as much time as possible with him, too.”

Yurio crosses his arms, huffing at the snide remark, and Yuuri can’t determine whether he’s more offended by Chris’ intended jab or the insinuation that he might actually have a friend.

“Yuuri,” Mila chimes in. “Do you have any dance experience? I know it’s short notice, but if you don’t feel confident in your dance ability, I could arrange for a tutor to show you some basics.”

“Ah, I actually took ballet classes as a kid. And I competed as an ice skater for years, so I usually pick up new choreography fairly quickly.” Yuuri shrugs. “I don’t know if any of that’s relevant, though. I’m not familiar with any of your dance styles here.”

“No, that’s great.” Mila grins. “Perfect, actually. Saves us a couple steps.” Yuuri thinks he catches her slip a knowing look toward Chris, and wonders if he might be part of some surreptitious plan.

The tailor mercifully grants Yuuri permission to leave, reminding him to return for a second fitting that evening. Chris hands the pastry to Yuuri, who plucks it out of his hand and takes a long overdue bite. His stomach emits a satisfied grumble.

“Don’t forget our plans this afternoon,” Chris says, and Yuuri’s newfound cheer vanishes at the reminder. How much suffering is he going to endure at Chris’ hands today? But then, he thinks, at least it’ll give him something to do this afternoon besides pine after Viktor, who had apologized profusely this morning for his crammed schedule. Maybe Chris is right about Viktor, Yuuri supposes. He’s already worn so thin from his duties that it’s not inconceivable he’s just forgotten to invite Yuuri to the ball.

But the persistent, clawing anxiety at the back of Yuuri’s mind still balks at that hope.

 

After following a winding grapevine from Chris to Mila to Yurio, Yuuri learns that Viktor will be having his own fitting shortly after lunch. Yuuri’s waiting in the hall when Viktor saunters out of the parlor doors. Viktor’s mouth stretches to a grin as he spots Yuuri.

“Yuuri!” He loops his arm around the crook of Yuuri’s elbow, leading him down the corridor. “What a wonderful surprise! I’m in a bit of a rush for my next engagement, but let’s walk there together! How was your morning? Nice, I hope?”

Yuuri nods. “Yeah, it was...nice.” He refrains from mentioning the fitting; it’ll be awkward, if he then learns that Viktor doesn’t want him there after all. Inappropriate, even, that he’s presumed to know Viktor’s wishes. He swallows. “Where are you headed?”

“The Great Hall. I have to greet a slew of arriving dignitaries.” Viktor heaves a sigh as he tugs Yuuri closer to his side. “I’d much rather be spending the afternoon with you. Do you have any plans?”

“I, uh...no, but I’m sure I’ll find something to do.” Again Yuuri doesn’t disclose his plans with Chris, though he’s suddenly reminded of Chris’ earlier suggestion. All he has to do is mention the ball. He doesn’t need to include that he’s preparing to attend without an invitation, only that he’s caught wind of it, and then all he has to do is wait for Viktor’s response. And Viktor’s given him the perfect opportunity; Chris had mentioned earlier that most of the dignitaries would be arriving in time to attend the ball.

“Why are the dignitaries arriving so early?” Yuuri asks in a tone so innocent it almost nauseates him. “The coronation’s not for a few days still.”

Viktor shrugs. “Ah, you know royals.” Yuuri doesn’t, really. “Only punctual when you don’t want them to be.”

His explanation ends there, and a sharp ache hits Yuuri’s chest. Viktor hasn’t forgotten to mention the ball; if he had, this should have been enough to jog his memory. But that clearly wasn’t necessary. He remembers the ball, and he’s deliberately chosen not to mention it to Yuuri. And that’s... _fine?_ No. It’s painful. It’s so painful, everywhere--in Yuuri’s forehead, his chest, his churning stomach. Pressure builds behind his eyes, but he holds it back. He’s a master at it now; he’s had the majority of his life to practice. He untangles his arm from Viktor’s.

The gesture catches Viktor’s attention immediately, blue eyes zeroing in on him. “Yuuri?”

Yuuri forces a smile, hoping Viktor won’t be able to see through it. It wouldn’t be fair for him to burden Viktor with his feelings; Viktor didn’t ask for them, didn’t encourage Yuuri to get his hopes up only to have them smashed. That had all been Yuuri’s fault. So he maintains the smile as he draws further away from Viktor, offering a stilted, “I should go. Have a nice afternoon.”

Viktor furrows his brow, clearly bemused, but he’s in too much of a rush to slow his pace, his attendants still ushering him onward. He blinks, and the crease in his forehead dissipates as quickly as it appeared. He returns an equally awkward, “O-okay! I’ll see you later?”

Yuuri nods. “Of course!”

It doesn’t take long for Viktor and his attendants to vacate the corridor, leaving Yuuri alone in more ways than one.

 

“You’re overreacting,” Chris tells him later, his breath tickling Yuuri’s face. Yuuri tries not to grimace at the dicomfiting sensation.

Instead, he throws his arms up. “ _How_ am I overreacting? He purposefully didn’t mention it to me! Obviously he doesn’t want me there.”

“Hey.” Chris grabs his chin and jerks his face back to eye-level. “Stop moving. Do you want me to stab you in the eye?” He waves around the stick of eyeliner in his hand. He’s still insistent on practicing makeup looks on Yuuri, despite Yuuri’s argument that the whole effort was fruitless because  _Viktor doesn’t want him there._

There’s a string of curses from the vanity table beside theirs, where Mila’s practicing her own look in the mirror. She rummages through her makeup box and grouses, “Damn Georgi, he’s used up nearly all of my dark makeup. He can’t even pull that look off!”

At Chris’ urging, Yuuri relaxes his eyelids and allows him to finish his work, if only because one eye is already lined. He’s no stranger to eyeliner; Phichit used to practice looks on him all the time in college. Chris’ breath billows on Yuuri’s face again as he says, “Look, I’m sure Viktor has his reasons for not telling you, and I’m sure that whatever they are, they’re not as simple as you think. I’ll see if I can weasel them out of him at dinner.”

Yuuri barely resists his eyelids’ instinct to fly open. “No! Don’t do that!”

“And why not?”

“That… That will be so awkward! With me sitting right there, across the table from you!” Yuuri’s face burns at the speculative embarrassment.

“But you won’t be.” Chris pulls away and regards Yuuri for a moment before nodding, apparently satisfied with his work. “Viktor’s hosting a feast for the visiting dignitaries tonight. And we’re all attending. Well, all of us except…”

“Except for me,” Yuuri finishes for him.

“Sorry you’re being abandoned,” Chris says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “Especially since Viktor won’t get to see you like _this_ just yet. Mila, come take a look!”

Mila leans away from her mirror, her eyes going wide. “Oh!” Her mouth curls into a sly grin. “ _Very_ good work, Chris.”

“Thank you. It’s a talent.” Chris turns his attention back to Yuuri. “Don’t worry about dinner. I’m sure Viktor’s requested something completely over-the-top for your meal.” Like he was sure that Viktor would invite Yuuri to the ball if only Yuuri mentioned it to him? Right now Yuuri’s not keen to trust any of Chris’ hunches.

“Now,” Chris says, opening one of the vanity table’s drawers and poring over its contents, “how do you feel about hair gel?”

 

As the hours tick by, Yuuri’s hair turns stickier and stiffer, until he’s driven to wash the hair gel out. It hadn’t been a bad look--uncharacteristic for Yuuri, sure, but also a testament to Chris’ talent--but the texture had become unbearable. So had all the scrutinizing stares Yuuri had received while meandering the corridors. For all the grandeur of the royal palace, it’s apparently still atypical for people to walk around in everyday clothes _and_ full hair and makeup. While he’s at it, Yuuri washes the makeup off, too.

His hair is mussed and dripping when he takes a look in the mirror over the basin, the makeup gone save for a few stubborn flecks of black eyeliner. Chris will chew him out for it when they meet for the second fitting tonight, he knows, but at least he won’t catch anymore wayward glances on his way to dinner.

Viktor’s arranged for an attendant to escort Yuuri to the private dining room, as though Yuuri might lose his way despite having eaten his past two dinners there. As expected, the entire room is empty, making it appear even more spacious than it had before. A folded card waits atop Yuuri’s placemat. When he opens it, a leaf of paper slips out and flutters to the floor.

“Oh!” As Yuuri reaches for it, the large lettering at the top of the page catches his attention: ‘Traditional Recipe for Royal Snow Cookies.’ Yuuri’s not sure he could ever stomach one of those cookies again, but he can’t fight his smile as he sets the paper beside his placemat. He unfolds the card.

“Dearest Yuuri,” the letter reads, the words written in oversized, wispy strokes--nothing less than what he would expect from Viktor. “I apologize for not accompanying you to dinner, but another engagement demands my presence tonight. (Though believe you me, I would abandon it for dinner with you in a heartbeat, were Yakov not already threatening the security of my head to my neck.) I hope this meal might compensate for my absence. I know it’s unlikely to meet your usual standards (how could it?), but I detailed the recipe to the chefs to the best of my abilities. Enjoy! Love, Viktor.”

_Love._ Yuuri’s thumb hovers just beneath the words. It’s courtesy, he reasons. It’s Viktor’s writing style. But it doesn’t subdue the foolish stirring in his chest. He gingerly sets the card atop the cookie recipe. Once he takes his seat, a server arrives with a covered silver tray and places it before Yuuri. He knows what it is before the server’s even removed the cloche, that familiar and unmistakable smell slivering out and wafting up to Yuuri’s nose.

_Katsudon._ The cloche flies up, and the only thing that surprises Yuuri is the sheer amount of food in the bowl. Viktor’s been to his house. He’s eaten Hiroko’s katsudon. Surely he must know that this is enough to feed Yuuri’s entire family.

But then, Yuuri thinks, why had he expected anything less from Viktor? A small laugh escapes him as he regards the absurd amount of food set before him-- _his_ food, his katsudon. This is Viktor, after all, who always gives too much. Viktor, who prepares Yuuri’s favorite meals and absent-mindedly signs his name with “love,” giving no thought toward what it means to Yuuri.

To be fair, Yuuri’s not sure what it means to him, or even what it _should_ mean. It’s a foolish thing, to read into every word Viktor utters, every gesture he makes, when Yuuri isn’t even sure of his own feelings. But then again, this card, that word, the katsudon; this all feels a lot like Viktor’s love, and it sparks a cozy warmth in Yuuri’s chest. Whatever it means, Yuuri will accept it. He’ll accept whatever Viktor offers him. Viktor’s already given so much of himself to so many, and Yuuri knows he’s already received more than he warrants. How can he be upset with Viktor for not inviting him to the ball? He chides himself for being so selfish.

His stomach grumbles at the enticing, warm smell of katsudon, and he decides to appease its impatience. The first bite bursts with familiar flavor, a taste of home a universe away. It’s still not quite as good as his mother’s--Viktor had been right on that account--but it’s a close imitation. Viktor must have gotten the recipe from Hiroko during his stay at their home. The thought, coupled with the comforting taste of katsudon, incurs a strained longing in Yuuri; he misses those days, brief as they were, when it was just him and Viktor and his family, Viktor’s imminent departure only a distant, nebulous threat. Yuuri should have treasured those days more.

It takes sincere effort for Yuuri to refrain from gorging himself on his favorite food, but Chris’ inevitable scolding when Yuuri doesn’t fit into his ball clothes later gives him plenty of motivation. He has no problem resisting the platter of royal snow cookies that the server brings out for dessert.

He’s accosted by Chris almost immediately upon leaving the dining room. Chris links his arm through Yuuri’s as he leads him down the corridor at a brisk pace.

“Come, we’ll have to hurry to the parlor,” Chris says, foregoing greetings. “Viktor mentioned that he might be going for another fitting tonight, damned perfectionist, so I had to sneak out of the banquet early.”

Yuuri clears his throat. “Did you ask him about-”

“He’ll kill me for abandoning him with a bunch of stuffy dignitaries, but it’s his own fault, after all.” Chris’ shoulders slump, his expression morose. “I can’t believe I had to leave after only two drinks. And they were going to bring out my favorite berry liqueur for dessert, too!”

“Yes, that’s very sad. Did you get a chance to ask-”

Chris yanks Yuuri’s chin toward him, eyes narrowed. “You washed your hair gel and makeup off. Why?”

Yuuri tugs his face out of Chris’ grip. “I couldn’t go around the palace like _that!_ They give me strange enough looks here already.”

“You shouldn’t have done that. It’s far too late to re-apply them; now we won’t know how well they match the outfit.” Chris heaves a sigh. “What an evening.” He opens the parlor doors and shoves Yuuri in. “Go on, time is of the essence!”

The tailor’s quick to retrieve the outfit. It consists of three components--a dark pair of pants that somehow manage to be both close-fitting and flexible, a thin purple shirt, and a dark blue jacket that buttons midway up Yuuri’s torso. The jacket is surprisingly structured and insulated, an interwoven swath of gold securing the garment so it’s snug around his waist, and Yuuri wonders whether it might be too warm to wear while dancing. But that takes second thought as Yuuri twirls in the mirror, awestruck by his own bright reflection, the glitter in the jacket’s shoulders shimmering with every movement. He grins as he catches Chris’ smirk in the mirror.

Chris rests his chin in his hand as he studies him. “You like it?”

“It’s... _incredible._ ” Yuuri tears his gaze from the mirror as he spins toward Chris. “I’ve never worn anything like this before, but it’s…”

“Perfect?” Chris suggests. Yuuri nods. “I know. I expected it to look good on you, but to be honest, this surpasses those expectations.”

Yep, Yuuri was _definitely_ part of some surreptitious plan.

Chris cranes his head toward the tailor. “What do you think?”

“The sleeves could use a slight hem, but otherwise it’s a perfect fit.” He looks at Chris. “The adjustments would take less than an hour, if you’d like to wait?”

Chris considers it for a moment, then says, “I suppose. We’ll have to keep a look out for Viktor, but tomorrow will be such a rush, it might be best to get as much as we can done tonight.”

He spends much of the next hour pacing the parlor floor, occasionally sneaking glances out the door for Viktor. Yuuri sits wrapped in a heavy blanket, his clothes piled on the seat next to him. Chris returns to his own chair across from Yuuri, arms crossed as he mutters, “I wonder if they’re enjoying that berry liqueur right now.”

As much as Yuuri would love to sympathize with Chris’ maudlin little story, there’s another issue that’s still gone unaddressed. “Chris,” he begins, tucking himself deeper into the blanket, “did you ask Viktor about the ball? About why he hasn’t mentioned it to me?”

“I did.” Chris leans back in his seat. “And you don’t have to worry. He said you wouldn’t be interested in attending a ball.”

It’s not the answer Yuuri had feared, but it’s not one he can make sense of, either. “What? Why?”

Chris shrugs. “I don’t know. Have you ever been to a ball before?”

“No, but I… I can’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“You’re worrying again.” Chris cocks an eyebrow. “Don’t. You’re reading too much into this.”

“It’s a _weird_ answer, though-”

“It’s not.”

“And that still means I don’t have an invitation! What’s the point of us being here if I’m not invited to the ball?”

Chris snaps his fingers, momentarily drawing Yuuri’s attention away from his mounting anxiety. “Yuuri, focus. The invite has never been an issue. You can go as my plus-one and surprise Viktor.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen at the suggestion. “No, I couldn’t. That wouldn’t be fair to you.” And besides, who’s to say Viktor would take the surprise as a good thing?

“It’s fine. My actual plus-one has his own invitation.” Chris levels his eyes with Yuuri’s. “Now, stop panicking. Everything’s going to be alright, and tomorrow night you’re going to have a ball at the...hm.” He trails off, brows furrowed, until the tailor reenters. Chris claps his hands together as he rises from his seat. “Oh, perfect! Right on time.”

This time the outfit fits perfectly, though Yuuri really had no complaints about it before. He gives another spin in the mirror, more for himself than for the tailor’s judgment, and finds himself loathe to take the outfit off again after the tailor deems it finished. But Chris is already nagging at him to hurry up before Viktor arrives, and so Yuuri casts one final, longing glance at the outfit as they slip out the doors, already caught up in daydreams of tomorrow--of the outfit, of the ball, of Viktor. It feels suspiciously like a fairy tale, and while his past has firmly banished any belief in such fantasies from his mind, his heart is all-too-willing to play along.

He parts ways with Chris halfway to Viktor’s room, promising several times over that yes, he’ll meet Chris in the fitting room tomorrow; and yes, he’ll make sure he gets there with plenty of time to get ready; and no, he won’t chicken out, come _on_ , Chris.

Yuuri sneaks through the corridors on his own, keeping a watchful eye out for Viktor as he navigates his way back to the latter’s bedroom. Even though he’s not dressed up anymore, he’s still never stayed in the palace this late--and without Viktor at his side, no less. Viktor’s sure to suspect something if he catches Yuuri skulking through the palace at this hour.

He reaches Viktor’s bedroom at last, and his plan to go undiscovered immediately sours as he finds two guards standing post outside the doors. His shoulders tense up as he hazards a step forward, voice warbling as he says, “Uh...I need to go in there. If that’s okay?” The guards don’t react, which Yuuri presumes is permission granted. He’s not totally sure, but at least they’re not brandishing swords at him. He barely breathes as he passes between them, though he can’t help his sigh of relief as they allow him to open the door.

The relief is short-lived, however, dissipating once Yuuri’s eyes fall on Viktor. He’s sat on his bed, adorned in an elaborate, brightly colored suit that’s only half-assembled, as though he changed his mind midway through getting undressed. His gaze is trained on the ground, his expression unreadable, until the door clicks shut behind Yuuri. Blue eyes snap up toward him, wide with surprise and lined with fatigue.

“Yuuri.”

“Ah. Hi.” Yuuri releases his grip on the doorknob and takes a tentative step into the room. “Sorry for barging in. I thought you were going to-” He stops, remembering that his presence at the ball is still meant to be a secret.

“Going to what?” Viktor prompts.

“Never mind.”

There’s a pause before Viktor says, “I thought you would have gone home by now.”

Did Viktor _want_ him to go home? “Oh! Uh, well, I guess I didn’t?” Yuuri flubs. He really should have worked on a cover story with Chris. He takes a breath and adds, “By the way, thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”

Yuuri hadn’t noticed the tension in Viktor’s shoulders until now, when they visibly relax. Viktor’s lips curve into a small smile. “Oh, you’re more than welcome! I’m so relieved you enjoyed it. I was worried the chefs might not get it right. They’ve never been asked to prepare something like that before.”

“It was great, really,” Yuuri insists. “Almost as good as my mom’s.”

Viktor laughs. “Well, I would never expect it to be on par with your mom’s, but I’ll take ‘almost’ as high praise.”

“You should. But really, that was so thoughtful. Thank you.”

Yuuri’s hardly aware that since the start of their conversation, he’s crossed the room to stand directly in front of Viktor. He only notices once Viktor takes his hands in his, thumb ghosting over Yuuri’s knuckles as he murmurs, “I wish I could have been there.”

Yuuri’s cheeks feel impossibly warm. “I’m sure your dinner with the dignitaries was much more exciting.”

“No.” Viktor shakes his head. “It was boring. I’d take a bowl of katsudon with you over a feast with a hundred dignitaries any day.”

It’s not fair, really, what Viktor does to Yuuri’s heart; it’s not fair that he doesn’t even seem to know he’s doing it. He offers his love so freely, and Yuuri’s selfish heart wants to consume all of it. Maybe it’s not fair to Viktor. But then, Viktor’s looking up at him with such sincerity in his eyes, uttering such kind things, and Yuuri wonders if maybe now is the chance he’s been waiting for to bring up the ball.

He decides to come at it indirectly: “Well, you’ll have dinner with me tomorrow night, so it’s fine.”

“Hm?” Viktor’s brow furrows, as though he’s figuring it out. For a moment, Yuuri thinks he has, and there’s a brief flutter of hope in his chest as Viktor doesn’t immediately reject the idea.

But then Viktor says, “Oh. About that. I, uh… I don’t think it’s a good idea if you come here tomorrow, Yuuri.”

The world freezes. Yuuri’s hands feel numb to Viktor’s touch. “What?”

“I’ll be busy the whole day,” Viktor elaborates. “You won’t have anything to do. I don’t want you to be bored.”

He doesn’t want Yuuri to be _there._ Yuuri’s stomach lurches, his breath going short. He should have known this would happen. He shouldn’t have let Chris get his hopes up. He always does this, always gives into his optimism, always refuses to learn from his mistakes. It’s his own fault, his own stupid-

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri slips his hand out of Viktor’s, unable to meet his eyes as he mumbles, “I… I understand. I should...go, I think.”

Viktor stands up suddenly, prompting Yuuri to stumble a few steps backward. “Yuuri?” Viktor prompts, his eyes wide. “Is something wrong?”

Yuuri was wrong. Chris was wrong. It’s all wrong. This is where Yuuri and Viktor’s relationship begins and ends, enclosed within bedroom walls, hidden away as it always has been. He _should_ have known.

“I’m fine,” he breathes out, heading for the armoire. “Just tired.” His composure is crumbling; he knows it, can feel the tears pressing against his eyes despite his years of practice. He grasps his trembling hand around the doorknob, turning it in his clammy palm.

“Yuuri.”

He pauses, takes a breath. Then Yuuri turns, mustering up the most convincing smile he can. “Good night, Viktor,” he says, looking at Viktor, but not quite seeing him. “I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay?”

Maybe Viktor waits to respond. Maybe he doesn’t offer a response at all. Yuuri’s not sure, because in the next moment, he’s swung the armoire door shut behind him. He pushes through the linens, vision as muzzy as his target at the back wall. He stumbles through it and promptly crumples to his closet floor. The tears waste no time in breaking free as Yuuri relinquishes his control. He tucks his head between his knees, fat droplets of water hitting the wooden floor.

_So stupid_ , he thinks. He was so stupid. To think he could be anything special to Viktor, to think he could be anything special at all.

He feels six years old again.

 

Sunlight filters through Yuuri’s blinds and he stays under his bed covers. Birds sing outside his window and he rolls onto his side. Snow melts along the windowsill, a steady _drip drip drip_ , and Yuuri presses his eyelids closed, desperate for a scant few minutes more of sleep.

When it doesn’t come, he pushes himself up and lingers at the edge of his bed, eyes trained on the floor. He won’t permit his gaze to wander to the closet. He doesn’t need to acknowledge it, he tells himself. He doesn’t need to think about what transpired last night, about the portal looming behind his closet door, about Viktor on the other side, readying himself for the ball without Yuuri. Just as he’d planned.

Yuuri doesn’t _need_ to think about it, but still it plagues his every thought. He wishes he could have slept a little longer. It seems the only way to escape his thoughts, but even sleep is rejecting him now.

After getting dressed, Yuuri drags himself down to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator door to find...nothing. It’s filled with food, of course--Hiroko would never allow it to be anything less than fully-stocked--but none of it whets Yuuri’s appetite. It’s hardly a surprise; his stomach is currently a swirling pit of anxious nausea. He can’t even imagine stomaching a bowl of katsudon right now.

He spends the morning on the sofa, ensconced in a heavy blanket and deflecting curious texts from Phichit.

“How’s that handsome college friend of yours? ;)” flashes one text. Another immediately follows: “Also how’s that fake one that’s staying at your house?”

“He’s not here.” While Yuuri’s response succinctly answers both questions, he figures Phichit’s going to read too much into its terseness. He follows it up with another: “He’s out for the day. I’m staying in at the onsen.”

“What? :O I thought you two were attached at the hip!” Yuuri’s not sure how to reply to that one. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to. The phone flashes again: “So, how are YOU?”

The response flies from Yuuri’s fingertips, a wonder of muscle memory: “I’m doing well, thanks!”

There’s a delay before Phichit’s text, immediately signalling to Yuuri that he’s made a misstep. Before he can rectify it, however, his phone lights up again: “Are you really?”

“I’m fine, promise!” he replies, before firing off several others to divert the conversation. “How are you doing?” “Did you meet with Cialdini today?” “How are the hamsters?” “Is your roommate still the worst person ever?”

“Great. Yes. Great. Yes.” It’s an unusually curt reply coming from Phichit, and Yuuri’s shoulders tense as he waits for Phichit’s next text. It comes after another pause: “Do you want to video chat?”

Phichit suspects something. Yuuri should have known better than to text him; his best friend knows everything about him, all his tics and tells. There was no way he could have convinced Phichit everything was okay. He crafts out his next text carefully, proofreading it several times before pressing ‘send’.

“Maybe another time? I have to help Mari with laundry. And I know it’s getting late on your end. I don’t want Cialdini calling you out on falling asleep in class tomorrow.”

Yuuri’s not sure it’s enough to placate Phichit’s concerns, but for now, at least, Phichit lets it slide: “Okay. Keep me updated please. No more lengthy silences from your end?”

“No more. Promise.”

It’s probably not a promise he can keep.

Yuuri tries again to eat at noon, when his family filters through the kitchen one-after-another to fix lunch for themselves. Once again, he’s left staring into the bright, artificial light of the refrigerator, his stomach soundly rejecting everything his eyes offer. In defeat, he pulls back and shuts the refrigerator door.

Mari eyes him from the kitchen counter, where she’s hovering over a plate of onigiri. She holds one out to him. “Want one? Mom made them this morning.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “No thanks. I’m not feeling very hungry.”

“Hm.” Mari places the onigiri back on the plate and turns to face her younger brother, elbows resting on the counter as she studies him impassively. “Have you eaten anything today?”

Yuuri had enough trouble lying to Phichit over text. Lying to Mari in person is an unfeasible option, and he’s certain they both know it. He attempts a nonchalant shrug. “My stomach isn’t feeling very well.” That, at least, isn’t a lie.

“Ah.” Yuuri can feel Mari’s gaze scrutinizing him again, and he tries not to shrink beneath it. She takes a bite of onigiri before observing, “You’re not with Viktor and Yurio today.”

“They’re doing something else,” Yuuri replies.

“They’re not even here anymore.” When Yuuri visibly startles, Mari only sighs. “Did you you really think we wouldn’t notice that the guest room hasn’t been used for the past couple nights?”

“They moved out,” Yuuri admits, knowing he’s caught. “But they’re staying close by. I’ve hung out with both of them over these past couple days, I swear.”

“I never said you hadn’t been.” Yuuri’s breath feels short in his chest. Mari has him pinned; as always, he’s useless at keeping secrets from his big sister. But to his relief, she spares him the interrogation, instead asking in an unusually soft tone, “If something was wrong, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

Yuuri nods. “Of course.”

A silence falls between them, heavy and crushing, and Yuuri realizes that they both know he’s lying.

Under Mari’s careful watch, Yuuri finally stomachs some food. It’s not much--just a half-cup of miso soup with a side of rice--but it weighs like a stone in his stomach. He curls into his bed in the dim light of the gray afternoon, staring at the phone in his hand, as though he doesn’t know it won’t light up. The only contact who might text him now is asleep in Detroit. That’s for the best, Yuuri reminds himself. He has to stop putting his own hurt on other people. Phichit deserves his sleep.

His wallowing is interrupted by a loud sneeze from inside the room. Yuuri starts, his phone tumbling from his hand to the mattress. He waits, listening, but nothing follows. Maybe he’s just imagined it, he reasons. His sleep-deprivation has played tricks on him before.

But then he hears the distinct sound of scratching on wood, and Yuuri pushes himself up in one frantic motion. He rises to his feet, his thrumming heartbeat threatening to drown out the scratching noise. He braces himself as he stares at the obvious source of the noise: the closet door. His mind scrambles up a list the two possible culprits, and writes them off just as quickly. Viktor and Yurio are the only two people to have come through the portal, and he can’t imagine either of them scratching at the door of his closet. He takes a cautious step nearer to the closet, his shoulders painfully tense.

They relax as soon as he hears the pathetic whimper, muffled as it is against the closet door. Yuuri heaves a sigh of relief as he swings the door wide open, permitting Makkachin to bound into his room. She leaps onto his bed, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth as her tail thumps against his mattress. Yuuri strokes the soft curls atop her head.

“Hey girl,” he murmurs, a faint smile tugging at his lips for the first time that day. “What are you doing here?”

Makkachin replies by way of nuzzling her head further into Yuuri’s palm. He scratches behind her ears and her tail beats louder against the bed. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though there’s no reproachfulness in his voice. “You belong on the other side of the portal.”

He drops his hand from her face and takes a few steps toward the closet, clapping a hand against his thigh in a motion for her to follow. She does, leaping off the bed and trotting over to the closet. “Go through,” Yuuri says, pointing to the smudgy back wall. Makkachin only cants her head. Yuuri sighs. “Come on. All you have to do is go back the same way you came.”

His reasoning does little to encourage Makkachin, whose tail thumps against the hardwood floor at Yuuri’s attention. His shoulders fall a little in defeat. “Come on, Makka, you don’t belong here. You have to go back to Viktor.” Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri spots a loose sheet of construction paper lying on the closet floor. He picks it up and crumples it into a tight ball. “Here,” he says, bringing it to Makkachin’s nose. She takes a curious sniff, but before she can examine it further, Yuuri hurtles it to the back wall. It disappears through the portal. “Go fetch!”

Makkachin stares at the wall, and for a brief, sweet moment, Yuuri thinks his trick might have worked. But then she looks back at him, eyes bright and tongue lolling out again, and he groans. “You’re just as stubborn as Viktor.” Resigned, he pats her head and says, “Come on, we’ve got to get you back to him.”

He takes a deep breath, praying he’ll be able to slip in and out of the portal unnoticed, and motions for Makkachin to follow him to the wall. She trails after him, her whiskery muzzle pressed to his fingers as they sneak through the portal and into the forest of dangling linens. Yuuri opens one of the armoire doors and Makkachin dives onto the bedroom floor. She twirls around, her whole body wiggling with excitement.

“Are you happy now?” Yuuri asks from inside the armoire, his hands braced on the doorframe. “Will you stay?”

The answer is a resolute ‘no,’ Yuuri discovers, as Makkachin leaps back into the armoire. “ _No_ ,” Yuuri groans, dragging his fingers down his cheeks. “Why are you like this?” He spins around and points at the bedroom floor. “Go on! Go!” Makkachin yips an objection. “No! You can’t stay in here!”

His words finally seem to make an impact on Makkachin, and she bounds out of the armoire and across the hardwood floor. Yuuri’s sigh of relief is cut short as he realizes it wasn’t his words that inspired Makkachin’s change of heart, but rather the disapproving figure standing by the bedroom doors. He opens his mouth, ready to explain, but nothing comes out. There’s not much he can say, anyway.

“It’s okay, I _don’t_ want to know,” Chris says, his brow creased in some awful mix of disappointment and bemusement. He’s dressed head to toe in a close-fitting black outfit with a bright crimson “V” emblazoned across his chest. It complements him--but then, most things probably look good on Chris. His lashes are long and tinted dark with mascara, emphasizing the green eyes that narrow on Yuuri now. “We don’t have time for you to explain, anyway. _You_ don’t have time.”

“What do you mean-” Yuuri’s question is cut short as Chris marches across the room and grabs his wrist. Yuuri staggers out of the armoire, too stunned to resist as Chris drags him to the bedroom doors.

“You’re _late_ ,” Chris growls as he leads them into the empty corridor. “I told you _not_ to be, that we were on a tight schedule, and yet you’ve been evading me up till now! The ball starts in less than an hour!”

“What? _No!_ I…” Yuuri snaps his wrist out of Chris’ grip. “I can’t go to that! Viktor doesn’t want me there.”

Chris pinches at his bridge of his nose, his brow furrowed. “ _This_ again? Yuuri, are you serious? This is beyond ridiculous, of course he-”

“He doesn’t!” Yuuri feels tears welling in his eyes--strange, he’d thought he’d exhausted them all--and forces them back. But he can’t help the waver in his voice. “Last night...he told me not to bother showing up. He said he’d be too busy.”

Chris blinks, a look of bafflement briefly crossing his face before he regains composure. “Was he specifically referring to the ball?”

Yuuri stiffens. “What?”

Chris enunciates each syllable to a condescending degree: “Did either of you mention the ball?”

“ _What difference does it make?_ ” Yuuri’s voice breaks out loud and strangled, reverberating against the walls of the vacant corridor--something he’s grateful for right now, even if the echo is unnerving. “Whether it’s the ball, or a whole day, or the rest of his life, what does it matter? I’m n- I’m not…” _Not enough_ , his brain supplies for him.

Chris sighs as he drops his hands to his sides; they dangle loosely as he appears to search for words. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, a sharp contrast to Yuuri’s. “Look, I don’t know what sort of twisted logic Viktor’s racked his brain into, but I do know that whatever you’re thinking--whatever you’re feeling--isn’t what he meant. He’s an idiot, Yuuri, but he’s not cruel. You have to know that.”

“Chris, please.” Yuuri’s voice cracks, exhausted just as he is. “He… Viktor doesn’t want me there.”

“Viktor doesn’t know what he wants. He’s never been given that choice.” Chris’ expression is atypically sincere now, so different from the coy smirking and near-theatrical exasperation that Yuuri’s come to expect. “I know you still don’t believe me. But even if you can’t trust me, at least trust in Viktor.”

_Trust in Viktor?_ To do what, exactly? Or to be what? Yuuri doesn’t even know who he expects Viktor to be to him. He doesn’t know who he _wants_ him to be. He... _doesn’t know what he wants._ Yuuri shudders as Chris’ words echo in his mind. He’s right. Viktor isn’t cruel. When has he ever intentionally hurt Yuuri? Ever been intentionally unkind? He’s just...an idiot. A stubborn idiot, who only laughs when Yuuri calls him so; who patiently waits for Yuuri to open up to him, never pressuring him for more, always meeting him where he is; who made a promise fifteen years ago that he wouldn’t let Yuuri fall, and who has kept it ever since. The barest hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Yuuri’s lips. _What a stupid question_ , he thinks. Of course he trusts Viktor. He always has.

He takes a breath, the tension in his body unwinding as he meets Chris’ eyes. “Okay.”

That’s all the answer Chris needs before he’s spiriting Yuuri down the corridor once again. They burst through the parlor doors together, startling the tailor out of his chair.

“Y-Your Grace!” He stumbles into a bow.

Chris ignores the formality, pushing Yuuri onto the dais as he marches toward the outfit rack. “My apologies for our late arrival.” He picks up Yuuri’s shoes, which shine every bit as much as his jacket. “Yuuri lost track of the time. We’ll need to make haste.”

The tailor, ever a professional, scrambles to the outfit rack. Soon Yuuri’s being stripped, twirled, dressed, twirled some more, fussed over like a precious doll rather than the clumsy, foreign commoner he is. Partway through the ordeal, an attendant pops into the parlor, chest heaving. “Your Grace,” he musters out, “Prince Viktor cordially requests your presence at the ball.”

Chris’ attention remains peeled on Yuuri, observing as the tailor smooths out the fabric at Yuuri’s shoulders. “I’ll be there soon.” He doesn’t even glance at the attendant, who briefly puffs out his chest, as though preparing to make another appeal and then deciding better of it.

“I understand,” he relents with a bow. “I will inform Prince Viktor.”

The door clicks shut and Chris looks to the tailor. “Is he ready?” The tailor steps back, appraising Yuuri, and nods. “Great,” Chris says, motioning for Yuuri to step down from the dais. “Now, are you ready for the fastest hair and makeup you’ve ever seen?”

It’s not an exaggeration. Chris’ efficiency at hair and makeup could give Phichit a run for his money. “There,” he declares, pulling the eyeliner back as he admires his work. “I think you’re ready.” He takes Yuuri’s hand, hauling him to his feet and twirling him around to face the mirror. “What do you think?”

Yuuri’s not sure he _can_ think. He almost doesn’t recognize his own reflection, all slicked back hair and bold eyeliner and shining clothes that exude extravagance. He looks confident--suave, even--and nothing at all like the real Yuuri. It feels like a mask, one that Yuuri’s equal parts eager and anxious about wearing.

He opens his mouth, sounds barely forming into words: “I… It’s-”

The door clicks open and the same attendant from before enters, now red-faced. “Once again, Your Grace, Prince Viktor requests your presence at his side-”

“I request that Prince Viktor cease his royal whining for once in his life.” Chris cranes his head back to make lazy eye contact with the attendant. “Can you tell him that for me? Please?”

The attendant doesn’t reply this time, merely slipping out of the parlor and shutting the door with just the slightest more force.

Chris looks back to Yuuri. “We really should be going, though. We’re late enough as it is.” His reflection locks eyes with Yuuri’s. “Do you like it?”

“Like it?” Yuuri nearly laughs. “Chris, it’s… You’re amazing. This outfit, the makeup...it all looks incredible.”

“No, _you_ look incredible.” Before Yuuri can shy away at his flattery, Chris pats him on the shoulder and heads for the door. “Come, we’ll have to hurry. Viktor will forgive _you_ for being late, but he’ll never let _me_ hear the end of it.”

The tailor scurries alongside them as they wind their way through the palace’s empty corridors. A cold breeze drifts through the air, the chill intensifying as they patter down a cramped and coiled staircase. It comes to a head as they reach the ground floor and stumble into a spacious, brightly-lit room. It’s nearly empty, occupied only by attendants and guards, and Yuuri puzzles over its function. By all rights, it looks like a ballroom, save for one small detail: there’s presently no ball here. A smattering of settees and upholstered benches cover the floor, suggesting it’s nothing more than an absurdly vast sitting room. The ornate doors at the wall opposite Yuuri are both propped open to the outside, and a vivacious melody borne of string instruments dances through them, accompanied by a low cacophony of chattering voices.

“What...is this place?” Yuuri asks as he peers around the room.

“The antechamber,” Chris replies. He plucks Yuuri’s glasses from his face before Yuuri can stop him, and hands them over to the tailor. “You won’t be needing _these._ ”

Yuuri tries to snatch them back, but the tailor’s already hurried out of reach. He stops at a smaller, humbler set of doors at the room’s back wall, and holds a quick discussion with an attendant there before disappearing into the next room. “I need those for distance,” Yuuri says.

“Do you need them to dance, though?” When Yuuri doesn’t respond, Chris only purses his lips. “Didn’t think so.” The tailor reemerges from the doors without Yuuri’s glasses, bearing two lidded boxes instead. Without warning, Chris grabs Yuuri’s shoulder and pulls the two of them onto the settee. Before Yuuri has a chance to question any of this, the tailor sets the boxes down in front of them. He opens one, and Yuuri’s breath catches at the glint of silver inside it.

“ _Skates?_ ” he asks, too baffled to resist when the tailor begins easing his shoes off. “What are these for?”

“For the ball, of course,” Chris replies, already sliding out of his own shoes. The tailor reaches out a tentative hand, but Chris gives him a dismissive wave. “No, no, I can do this myself. You focus on him. We’re running out of time.”

“But why do we need skates for a ball?” Yuuri watches as the tailor slips one of the skates onto his feet - a perfect fit and, save for the laces, a near perfect mimic of the shoes he’d been wearing before.

Chris doesn’t bother to answer as he rises to his feet, his skates already laced up. He lifts a single eyebrow as he peers down at Yuuri. “You’re in the Land of Ice and Snow. You figure it out.” He turns his attention to the tailor. “You’ll take care of our shoes, then?” The tailor responds with an affirmative nod and Chris says, “Thank you. You’ve gone above and beyond this evening.”

He saunters toward the entrance, leaving Yuuri behind on the settee, his skates’ laces still wound around the tailor’s fingers. Worry hitches in Yuuri’s voice as he calls after Chris, “Aren’t you going to wait for me?”

Chris doesn’t so much as glance back as he grumbles, “I missed his opening remarks. You should be grateful I’m getting to him first because he is going to be _pissed._ ” He disappears through the broad doorway; in his absence, Yuuri feels even more lost than before. But he swallows that feeling, banishes that itching at his nerves, because the tailor’s just finished lacing up his skates. Yuuri tentatively rises to his feet, swiveling them side-to-side as he gets a feel for the skates. While they’re no match for his own, they’re far more comfortable than any rental skates he’s ever had the misfortune of wearing.

The tailor stands up, Yuuri’s shoes in hand. “I’ll take care of these for you. You ought to follow His Grace.”

“Right.” It sounds a lot easier than it feels; Yuuri’s knees are already trembling. He nods toward the tailor. “Thank you - for all your help.”

He turns and minces toward the doorway, hands gripping his upper arms as he braces himself against the chill. The strings melody grows louder, as does the rumble of eager voices outside. A pit forms in his stomach, and he tries to will it away. _Not now_. He’s come this far. It would be a waste to let his anxiety deter him now, before he even steps foot outside. Before he even sees Viktor.

Yuuri’s blade sinks with a _crunch_ into the snow outside. He pauses before taking another, drinking in the sight that had until now been obscured by the antechamber’s wall. Yuuri stiffens, briefly convinced that his imagination has somehow manifested itself into reality. Because it’s just as he imagined it fifteen years ago, just as he imagined it two nights ago, just as he’s seeing it now - the royal ice rink, aglow beneath decorative lanterns and the stars themselves. He’s never seen it like this before - not without the overbearing backdrop of palace lights; not with the countless dignitaries twirling and dancing on the ice in their bright costumes; never from this perspective, for once not from the servants’ door in the kitchen, but rather through a proper entrance, as though he actually belongs there.

He silences the doubtful buzz in his brain that reminds him that he doesn’t belong there, that he wasn’t even invited.

Yuuri steps onto the ice without attracting too much notice, the dignitaries all either dancing or yammering away at one another. He’s grateful for the lack of attention as he lifts his chin, searching the immense crowd for Viktor. He spots him immediately, that silver head of hair like a beacon in the dark, elevated on a dais at the opposite end of the rink. He’s locked in a fierce conversation with Chris; his practiced smile is pleasant as ever, but even without his glasses, Yuuri spies the bunch in his shoulders, the rapid fire of his lips as he berates Chris.

Green eyes dart toward Yuuri and Chris’ mouth twists into a smirk. He taps Viktor’s arm and points a finger directly at Yuuri, and Yuuri’s fairly certain his heart stops mid-beat. Viktor’s gaze follows, bright and sharp, pinning Yuuri to the spot. From a rink’s length away, brown eyes meet blue, and everything else in this universe vanishes. The two of them remain frozen for several seconds, their eye contact unwavering, although every other part of Yuuri is trembling so much that he feels he might fall apart.

He startles as Viktor steps down from the dais, maintaining their eye contact all the while. Without another word to Chris or any of the other dignitaries clamoring for his attention, Viktor strides across the rink toward Yuuri. Without thinking, Yuuri’s legs move to match his movements, skating toward Viktor as though his soul itself is drawn to him. Maybe it is. Perhaps it always has been. He weaves between the attendees, barely sparing their curious glances a thought; while the dignitaries have parted to form a path for their prince, Yuuri is an unknown, some foreign creature that’s infiltrated their crowd.

He reaches the middle of the rink at the same time Viktor does. They stop within inches of each other--close, but not close enough to satisfy the yearning that twists in Yuuri’s gut--neither of them daring to break eye contact, desperate to cling to this moment for fear of what might transpire once it breaks. The murmur of the crowd has gone silent to Yuuri’s ears, deaf to everything but his own pounding heartbeat.

Deaf to everything but Viktor’s voice, which emerges finally in a hushed tone, nearly reverent in its delivery: “Yuuri.”

His name always sounds different coming from Viktor’s lips, soft and warm and certain, but now it’s tinged with a new edge that Yuuri can’t identify. He’s not sure how to respond to it, so he replies in kind, faking an obvious bravado: “ _Viktor._ ” The name slips out wrong, sounding more mocking than seductive, but it cracks the tension. Viktor’s stunned, half-open mouth curves into a smile as a breathy chuckle escapes him; relief floods Yuuri’s body, his own mouth relaxing into a smile to mirror Viktor’s.

“You, uh…” For what Yuuri supposes is the first time in his life, Viktor appears to be uncertain of his words. There’s a pinkness high in his cheekbones as he breaks their eye contact at last, drawing his gaze to the ice. It takes him a moment to meet Yuuri’s eyes again, this time with a stumbled, “You… You look incredible.”

“Oh.” Warmth floods Yuuri’s face. “Thank you. You do, also. Look amazing, I mean.” In truth, he hadn’t noticed Viktor’s outfit until now - a pink jacket with gold strings and epaulettes, paired with a white shirt and close-fitting black pants. Viktor does look beautiful in it. But then, he’s always been beautiful to Yuuri.

Viktor extends an open hand toward him, his reach pausing midway between them, as though waiting for Yuuri to bridge the gap. Yuuri almost chuckles at the intensifying pinkness in Viktor’s cheeks as he asks, “Would you...like to dance?”

Yuuri’s smile broadens. He places his hand in Viktor’s, allowing their fingers to curl together, near instinct now. He gently tugs Viktor closer, until their faces are just a breath apart. “I’d love to.” He doesn’t miss Viktor’s sigh of relief, warm as it billows along his eyelashes. Yuuri places his free hand on the small of Viktor’s back and Viktor reciprocates the motion, his hand a welcome spot of warmth against the chilly air--though to be fair, Yuuri stopped noticing the chill a while ago.

He lets Viktor lead the dance--Yuuri has little ice dancing experience, after all--and Viktor starts slow, rotating them in small, languid circles. It’s not quite in time with the strings’ upbeat melody, and Yuuri wonders if Viktor’s purposefully taking a slower pace to accommodate him. Yuuri murmurs, “Sorry if my dancing’s off. When I heard about the ball, I didn’t really expect ice dancing.”

“Don’t worry about it. Your dancing’s perfect.” Viktor’s voice is low in Yuuri’s ear, his chin nearly brushing against Yuuri’s cheekbone. Yuuri shudders at the passage of breath along his face. “I can’t imagine anything you do could be less than incredible.”

Yuuri nearly chokes on his stunned laughter. “You don’t have a very broad imagination then,” he demurs. “ _You_ have never been subjected to my drunk dancing.” The corner of Viktor’s grin quirks upward.

“Oh? Now I’m intrigued.”

“Don’t be. It’s a good thing there aren’t any drinks out here-”

“Oh, there are, if you know who to ask.”

Yuuri groans. “You don’t understand. There would be _chaos_ on the ice.”

“That sounds like it would be an improvement.” Viktor’s laughter is gentle and warm, a sweeter sound than any melody the strings could conjure. “But we’ll steer clear of the drinks anyway.” His fingers curl into the fabric of Yuuri’s jacket. “The ball is already improved now that you’re here.”

Yuuri ducks his head in an effort to hide his blush. “I’m...really happy to hear you say that,” he murmurs. “I was actually worried you might not want me here.”

There’s an abrupt pause to their lazy twirling. Viktor pulls out of their near-embrace, and Yuuri can feel the intense blue gaze boring into him. “What do you mean?”

Every instinct in Yuuri screams for him to divert the conversation. It won’t accomplish anything, a familiar voice chides him. He should just turn the conversation back to happier things, to things that won’t risk distancing him from Viktor. But then Chris’ voice rings in his head again, loud enough to eclipse Yuuri’s own: _Trust in Viktor._ And he does. “When you didn’t invite me - when you asked me not to come here today, I thought you didn’t want me to be _here._ Which, I mean, I was sure you had your reasons, but…”

He trails off as he catches Viktor’s eyes again, now wide and unblinking, his mouth half-open in a slack ‘o’. Viktor furrows his brow, his head shaking just slightly as he finally speaks, his voice coming out as barely more than a breath: “Oh, Yuuri. Oh. I’m so sorry.” His volume increases as he regains his composure, though his words still come out rushed and choppy. “I never meant to… I never want you to feel that way. It’s not that I don’t want you here, it could _never_ be that. I…”

Viktor’s hand leaves Yuuri’s back, and Yuuri can only watch in stunned silence as Viktor presses his palm to his forehead, pushing up some of his silver fringe. “I wish I could show you how much you mean to me. I’m not… I’m not very good at this sort of thing. Maybe I should just… Ugh, _should_ I just-”

Viktor’s hand cups the back of Yuuri’s neck, his thumb swiping through the short hair at its nape. His eyes meet Yuuri’s, blue and bright, and before Yuuri has time to think, his lips are pressed against Viktor’s. Despite its brusque delivery, the kiss itself is gentle, Viktor’s lips soft and pillowy against Yuuri’s own. _Perfect_. Just like everything else about Viktor. Heat flares in Yuuri’s chest as he reciprocates the kiss, pressing closer into Viktor, into their shared warmth. For a treasured moment, there is no ball, no crowd; no coronation, no portal; the entire universe has shrunk to the two of them, and Yuuri wouldn’t mind if it stayed like this forever.

The kiss breaks as they nearly topple over, Viktor looping his arm around Yuuri’s back just in time to spare them a collision with the ice. In another universe, they probably both fall, one atop the other. In another universe, Yuuri’s sure, neither of them mind.

Yuuri’s aware of the pressing gazes all around them, their real universe far more expansive than the one Yuuri’s just found himself lost in. The looks they’ve drawn are curious, prying, wrought out of shock and tinged with judgment. And Yuuri doesn’t care, the only gaze worth anything to him the bright blue one that meets his. Yuuri cups the back of Viktor’s neck and smiles. “You never fail to surprise me, you know that?”

“Funny,” Viktor says, grinning as he tugs Yuuri closer. “I was just thinking the same about you.”

They spend the remainder of the evening glued to each other’s sides--sometimes dancing, sometimes chatting with dignitaries, always touching. Viktor intertwines his fingers with Yuuri’s as he leads him around the ice, loops his arm through Yuuri’s as he introduces him to other attendees, clings to Yuuri as though he’s as starved for Yuuri’s touch as Yuuri is for his. The music, the lights, the hobnobbing; it’s all background noise to the electricity of Viktor’s touch, to the frantic buzz of Yuuri’s joy.

As a formality, Viktor makes a point to greet all the visiting dignitaries, tugging Yuuri in tow. Only a few stand out to Yuuri - King Seung-Gil of the Grand Peninsula, for instance, whose stony demeanor would surely be intimidating, were it not so comically out-of-place at the lively ball. Viktor introduces Yuuri to the Crispino siblings of the Land of Sunshine, too--or rather, the elder Crispino _sibling_ , who barely feigns interest in their conversation as he keeps a steely eye on his dark-haired younger sister, who’s schmoozing elsewhere on the rink with a _very_ chatty Mila.

“Prince Viktor!” greets the most memorable dignitary, his voice booming over the music. Yuuri struggles not to cringe as Prince Jean-Jacques of the Land of Great Lakes approaches them, his volume only increasing as he amends, “Though it will be King Viktor soon enough, I suppose!”

“Ah, King Jean-Jacques, you honor us with your presence,” Viktor says, perfectly faking sincerity, though Yuuri overheard him asking Chris for the visiting king’s name earlier in the evening. “Congratulations on your engagement. It was a delight to hear the news.”

The lovely, bright-eyed woman beside Jean-Jacques smiles as he wraps an arm around her waist. “Please, call me King JJ,” he says. “And yes, Isabella and I are looking forward to hosting the event of the century! No offense to your coronation, of course.”

Yuuri starts to laugh until Viktor squeezes his shoulder. His mouth is drawn into a thin, unreadable line, his head shaking slightly as King JJ prattles on about how delightfully _quaint_ and _old-fashioned_ this ball is. Once they’ve made their escape, Yuuri asks Viktor if he’s certain the visiting king wasn’t just joking.

Viktor heaves a sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if he’d be less annoying if he were.”

“You’ve met him before?” Yuuri furrows his brow. “But I thought you didn’t know his name.”

Viktor leans down so his breath tickles the shell of Yuuri’s ear. “Yuuri, do you really expect me to remember every uninteresting royal I’ve ever met?” Yuuri can’t fault him for it; he’s already forgotten the names of most of the dignitaries he’s met tonight.

Viktor twists to face Yuuri, clasping one hand around his back as the other holds Yuuri’s hand in midair. “No more dignitaries,” he says, leading Yuuri in a slow, twirling dance. “ _This_ is much more fun.”

Yuuri’s not about to argue with that. His grin turns mischievous as he hastens his step to match the rhythm of the strings. Viktor’s eyes widen fractionally in surprise before he breaks into a laugh, falling into Yuuri’s melody. They’re everywhere on the ice, dancing and spinning and attempting odd, ill-advised lifts. It’s everything Yuuri’s dreamed, and everything else he never dared to. He can barely believe that he’s here, on the royal rink, with _Viktor_ ; but it’s Viktor’s constant grip on his hand that keeps him tethered to this moment. And for once, it feels like the only thing either of them are tethered to.

Guests gradually trickle out of the rink as the evening wears on, leaving Yuuri and Viktor as one of the few remaining couples on the ice. Their enthusiastic dancing has since tired to a languid twirling, and Viktor leans in so his lips are against Yuuri’s ear. “It looks like the crowds are thinning. Shall we also make our escape?”

While Yuuri’s heart is inclined to reject Viktor’s suggestion and stay in this moment awhile longer, his chapped cheeks and wrecked lungs convince him to reason. His fingers remain intertwined with Viktor’s as they skate off the ice together, passing by Chris, who’s slow-dancing with a suitor of his own - a handsome man with shoulder-length brown hair. Chris catches them out of the corner of his eye and smirks. “You two owe me for a lifetime.”

Viktor whispers into Yuuri’s ear, “More than one lifetime, but don’t tell him that.” Yuuri only smiles, huddling closer to Viktor as they step out of the rink. They barely remember to trade in their skates for shoes, saved from tearing up the palace carpets only by the heroics of the tailor, who juggles their shoes as he races toward them.

Together Yuuri and Viktor dance down the halls back to the private apartments, spinning and laughing like they’re still on the ice. It feels the same to Yuuri; for once, the sense of freedom he’s always found on the ice has lingered even after he’s left it. If Viktor’s infallible grin, his body’s movements--easy and spontaneous in a way Yuuri’s never seen them in this palace--are any indication, that sense of freedom is mutual. It feels as though they’re back beneath Hasetsu’s night sky, and when Yuuri blinks, he swears he can see stars.

They slip past the guards at Viktor’s bedroom doors with thankfully little ado, and any insecurities or embarrassment Yuuri might have had immediately vanish as Viktor clicks the door shut behind them. Spurred by a gentle tug on his hand, Yuuri takes a step toward Viktor, close enough to feel the other man’s breath on his face. Wordlessly, Viktor lifts his free hand to Yuuri’s hair and cards his fingers through the thick strands, still stiff with gel. Yuuri’s eyes flutter shut as he leans into the touch.

Viktor murmurs, “I’d like to kiss you again. May I?”

Yuuri nearly laughs at the question. Viktor didn’t need to ask it, but of course he _would._ As far as Yuuri’s concerned, Viktor could kiss him as many times as he likes, and even then it probably wouldn’t be enough. But that’s a mouthful to communicate to Viktor right now--not to mention a little insouciant for Yuuri, at least while sober--so he only nods.

This kiss is less urgent than their previous one--their _first_ kiss, Yuuri realizes with delight--and both of them relish in drawing it out, in the gentle press of their lips, in the exchange of breath, like whispered confessions and careless sweet nothings. Their first kiss was loud, a desperate shout to cut through the incessant white noise, but this one is a conversation. When they finally break away, it’s only so they can catch their breaths.

Yuuri steps closer still to Viktor and, in a curiously bold move, cups the back of Viktor’s neck. He rises to his toes as he whispers in Viktor’s ear, “And again.” The corners of Viktor’s lips quirk upward as he dives into another kiss. His hand traces along Yuuri’s jaw, and Yuuri swings both his hands around Viktor’s shoulders, pulling him in tighter as he deepens the kiss. Each successive kiss is distinct from the previous, each carrying its own flavor, and yet each one feels so natural, so effortless to Yuuri.

They wind up on Viktor’s bed, their kissing turning lazy as the two of them give way to exhaustion. Eventually Yuuri flops out of Viktor’s lap and onto his side, reveling in the comfort of the cozy mattress after a night of exuberant skating. Viktor sinks into the mattress as well, his head propped against the headboard. Yuuri curls in closer to Viktor, who drapes an arm across his back, his fingers tracing light circles into the fabric of Yuuri’s shirt. Viktor’s own shirt has been thoroughly unbuttoned, and Yuuri would feel embarrassed for being the cause of it, were his mind not too busy drinking in the sight of Viktor’s bare chest.

“You know,” Viktor says at last, his hand unceasing in its ministrations along Yuuri’s back, “it’s not that I didn’t want you at the ball. I need you to know that.”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri mumbles. And it is. After all that’s happened tonight, he’s all but forgotten the issue. He can’t imagine why Viktor’s bringing it up now.

“It’s not," Viktor says. “I was being selfish, and I didn’t consider how my decisions would affect you. It’s just that…” He sighs, and Yuuri lifts his head to look at him. “I didn’t want you to see me as a prince. Everyone at these formal events--and near-everyone in this land, really--sees me only as that. It defines every conversation I have, every relationship I build. And I… I was stupid enough to think you might do the same, if you saw me like that.”

He looks at Yuuri, his blue gaze unusually vulnerable, and while it _is_ stupid, absolutely so, Yuuri can’t find it within himself to be angry. “You’re an idiot,” he says. He pokes Viktor’s forehead before settling his own head back onto the mattress, tucked between Viktor’s arm and chest. “Prince or not, you’re always Viktor to me.”

Viktor smiles. He presses a fleeting kiss to Yuuri’s temple. “Will you stay? Please?”

The thought of leaving hadn’t even crossed Yuuri’s mind. Right now he can’t imagine why he would even want to leave, why he would want to extricate himself from Viktor’s arms, away from this temporary little shelter from the world-- _worlds_ \--around them. He mumbles a muffled affirmative into Viktor’s side as he flops an arm across Viktor’s torso, hugging him tighter.

A couple minutes pass before Viktor turns off the lanterns surrounding his bed, his fingers continuously drawing circles along Yuuri’s back until the room goes completely dark. When they finally go still, Viktor’s palm remains pressed against Yuuri like a mutual anchor, even as Yuuri’s mind drifts elsewhere, fuzzy with fatigue. Sleep comes readily to Yuuri that night, for the first time in years, like an old friend returned at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pop quiz time. Who's the best wingman/woman in this chapter? A) Chris, B) Mila, or C) Makkachin?
> 
> So heyyy remember when this story used to update weekly? Great times. Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this long overdue chapter! Thanks for your comments and kudos on the previous one. I always love reading them!
> 
> By the way, the answer to the above question is actually D) none of the above. The real MVP of this chapter is the tailor, who is now taking a well-deserved nap.


	9. Say You Love Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Say You Love Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAMM8JVbr8g)

Yuuri awakes into a grander, more impossible dream than any his sleep could have conjured. Reality welcomes him back with the steady press of Viktor’s arm against his back, just as it had been last night. Yuuri’s face is still burrowed into Viktor’s chest, and when a small smile graces his lips, he wonders if Viktor can feel it against his skin. He flutters his eyelids open, blinking back his sleep, and gingerly lifts his head so he can look at Viktor without waking him.

It’s an unnecessary precaution, he soon learns, as he’s greeted by a pair of bright blue eyes. A thumb traces light circles on his shoulder. “Good morning,” Viktor murmurs, with a smile to outshine the bright rays streaming through the room’s windows. Yuuri could melt into that smile. He could melt into this moment, stay here forever, and never want for anything.

“‘Morning,” Yuuri mumbles, the last tendrils of sleep fogging up his voice. He shifts in Viktor’s arms, putting more weight on his own elbow so they can properly face each other. “How long have you been awake?”

“Only a little while. I didn’t want to wake you.” Viktor’s smile is warm as ever, but there’s something mischievous tugging at it now, a quiet amusement at play.

Yuuri narrows his eyes. “What’s so funny?”

A chuckle escapes Viktor. “It’s just...your hair,” he says. Yuuri lifts his head to catch his reflection in the gilded mirror and groans. His hair has molded itself into an untamed mess, a perfect catastrophe borne of hair gel, fervent kissing, and a night of sleep spent tucked into the crook of Viktor’s arm.

Viktor strokes Yuuri’s hair with the flat of his hand, smoothing it out to limited effect. Yuuri leans into the touch, allowing his eyes to flutter shut. “I should wash the gel out,” he says absently.

“Mm. Not just yet.” Viktor presses his other hand against the small of Yuuri’s back, cradling him even closer. Warmth smoldering in his chest, Yuuri reaches up to pull Viktor’s fingers from his hair. He tugs them to his lips and presses a light kiss to Viktor’s knuckles.

“Okay.” Yuuri’s lowering his head back down to Viktor’s shoulder, content to sink into the halcyon moment, when he’s interrupted by a thunderous knocking at the door.

“ _HEY!_ ” barks an unmistakably brash voice. “It’s time for idiot princes to wake up! Don’t you have any idea what time it is?”

Viktor’s smile vanishes. He swings his free arm over his face and muffles a groan into the crook of his elbow, prompting a small laugh from Yuuri.

The knocking persists. “I know you’re in there! You’d better get your lazy ass out of bed and open this door or I’ll send Yakov in to get you!” That’s enough to convince Viktor to push himself off the bed, heaving a sigh of resignation and murmuring an apology to Yuuri. Yuuri clings to Viktor’s hand as he pulls away, and his fingers are granted a small squeeze before Viktor moves out of arm’s reach. He drags himself across the room, silently bearing Yurio’s litany of threats, and swings the door wide open.

Beyond Viktor, Yurio’s blond locks draw into view. “I can’t believe Yakov made me your babysitter today,” he spits. “Isn’t that Chris’ job or something? Not that _Chris_ is anywhere to be seen either, since apparently everyone but Yakov and I has concluded that the country’s affairs will _conveniently_ pause for some stupid ball. I’ve been filling in for you all morning--not that that’s any different from the past three years, of course--and meanwhile, you haven’t even changed pants since last night! Unbelievable! That’s so-” Green eyes hone in on Yuuri, and Yurio’s face turns a brilliant shade of red. “Is that the piggy-” He shoves at Viktor’s chest, sending his older cousin stumbling back a step. “Is that why you’ve been ignoring your appointments all morning? That’s- You’re gross! Both of you! _Gro_ -”

“You’ve made your point, Yurio,” Viktor says.

“Don’t call me that!”

Viktor places his hands on Yurio’s shoulders and spins him so he’s facing the corridor. He sports his classic, full-charm fake-smile as he leans down to Yurio’s ear and hisses, “Now go.” He shoves Yurio into the hall and promptly shuts the door behind him.

“ _Viktor!_ ” The acridity in Yurio’s voice is nearly palpable. There’s a loud thud on the other side of the door, which rattles with the aftershocks of what Yuuri surmises was a swift kick. “You ass! Yakov’s going to kill both of us if you don’t-”

“I’ll be ready shortly!” Viktor calls. “Promise!”

“Your promises are all bullshit!”

“Yurio, _please!_ ”

There’s a momentary silence from the hall, followed by a tense, “I’m giving you _ten_ minutes.” Viktor lingers by the door for a few seconds more, waiting for Yurio’s retreating footsteps to escape earshot.

As soon as they do, he’s back on the bed with Yuuri, his arms bracketing Yuuri’s head as he leans in to kiss him. Yuuri meets him halfway, burying his fingers into Viktor’s silver hair as he pulls him closer. It’s already addictive, having Viktor like this - his soft lips on Yuuri’s, his hair threaded between Yuuri’s fingers, his thumb tracing the outline of Yuuri’s jaw. It’s so easy to fall into this, to lose track of responsibilities and time--and speaking of responsibilities and time…

Yuuri reluctantly pulls away. “You should go.”

“ _Yuuuuuri,_ ” Viktor purrs in his sing-song voice. “Why do I always feel like you’re trying to get rid of me?” He leans in for another kiss, but it’s met by an index finger to the bow of his lips.

“Maybe you weren’t listening to Yurio, but you have a country to go run.”

“And a very beautiful man in my bed. Priorities.”

Yuuri curses his susceptibility to Viktor’s charm. Despite himself, he cracks a smile as he runs his fingers through Viktor’s hair, chest fluttering when Viktor’s eyes briefly shut. As Viktor reopens them, Yuuri leans in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. He pulls back, lingering just a hair’s breadth from Viktor’s face, and murmurs, “Go fulfill your duties, and then come and find me once you’re done.”

Viktor grins. “I might find you sooner than that.”

“That’s cute, but I wouldn’t test Yurio’s patience.”

“Especially with Yakov on his case,” Viktor concurs, though Yuuri doesn’t miss the defiant glint in his eyes. Viktor slides out of bed, and some pathetic part of Yuuri mourns the loss of contact. “What would you like for breakfast? I’ll have the kitchens send something up.”

Yuuri follows Viktor out of bed and tries to hide his wince as his feet make contact with the floor. In case he’d forgotten about all the skating he’d done last night, his aches are there to remind him. “Actually, I was thinking of going back to my world.” He’s quick to elaborate, “Just for a shower and change of clothes! I’ll be back right after, promise.”

Viktor nods. “That makes sense.” The frantic patter of Yuuri’s heart slows, even as he puzzles over what’s changed. “When you come back, let the attendants know if you need anything, all right?”

“O-of course!” Yuuri starts toward the armoire, his thighs scolding him for every step. “I’ll see you later, then!” As one hand clasps around the handle of the armoire, the other one becomes entangled in something else. Viktor’s fingers tug him back, and Yuuri spins to face him, ready to half-seriously chide Viktor for not letting him leave. But Viktor’s quicker to act, leaning forward until their foreheads press together.

A smile dominates Viktor’s face as he exhales, “I’m so happy, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s face burns with nearly as much fire as his chest. He cups Viktor’s cheek. “Me too.”

They linger there for a moment longer, neither one ready to pull away into different universes just yet. But at last Yuuri does, taking initiative only because he knows Viktor won’t, and they’re edging dangerously close to Yurio’s ten-minute time limit. This time, Viktor lets him go, watching Yuuri slip through the portal with a dazed smile. Maybe he can finally feel it too, Yuuri thinks - that trust that the portal won’t close, that something is different now. Yuuri’s not sure of what exactly that feeling is, or what to ascribe it to, but he’s happy to leave it--to leave all of this--unquestioned for now. Of course, he knows that things aren’t perfect, that there will be complications and repercussions to navigate later, but nothing’s ever _felt_ quite this perfect before. His smile doesn’t waver even as his feet hit the cold, wooden floor of his bedroom closet.

 

So brilliant is Yuuri’s joy that it can’t be dimmed by the vicious stares he receives upon his return to the palace. For the past few days, he’s been little more than a curiosity, some lowly foreigner that the prince brought back from his travels. But now he’s some lowly foreigner that the prince has publicly kissed, and Yuuri’s suddenly aware that the previous judgment in his observers’ faces was mild by court standards. But he remains unfettered, buoyed by his own elation, by the memories of last night and this morning. If the rest of the palace views him as the one who stole Viktor from the world, well, Yuuri’s proud to be known for that.

He absently winds through the palace until he reaches the library, his casual search for Viktor fruitless even if he’d anticipated as much. Yuuri plucks a book from one of the shelves--an old tome with a frayed spine--and settles into a plush seat beside a broad window, full of natural light to read in. Yurio had mentioned that everyone else was occupied with their own business, so Yuuri will have to entertain himself somehow until Viktor returns from his duties. And besides, he’s always wanted to explore the palace library a little more. He flips the book open, reveling in the crinkle of stiff paper and the smell of centuries past that wafts up from the pages.

And yet as enticed as Yuuri is, he parses little more from the book than its title; his mind is inclined to wander elsewhere today, to greater and more exciting things that stoke that buzzing warmth in his chest. His gaze gradually drifts from the open pages to the window, to the crisp, blue sky above a spotless expanse of fluffy, white snow. Yuuri knows there’s a sharp draft that whistles through this window--he’s felt it before--but all he can feel now is the warm touch of sunlight on his skin. He basks in it for a couple hours as he repeatedly tries and fails to venture more than four pages into the book.

Yuuri’s about to give up on the book when a near-breathless voice shatters the sacred silence of the library: “There you are!” Before Yuuri can turn to face it, a familiar weight plops onto the arm of his seat. Blue eyes to outmatch the sky meet his own. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Yuuri offers a sheepish smile as he sets the book aside. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you’d be finished so soon.” He glances outside, squinting into the harsh sunlight. “Is it even noon yet?”

Viktor shrugs. He picks up the book Yuuri had been reading and intones, “Agricultural Methods of the 15th Century.” He lifts an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had such a keen interest in farming.”

Yuuri plucks the book out of his hand and sets it on a table again. “Everyone’s busy. I needed some way to entertain myself.”

“If you were bored, you should have concocted a way for me to escape my meetings this morning.”

“Hm. I think Yurio might have had some choice words for both of us.” Yuuri tucks a lock of silver hair behind Viktor’s ear, savoring the soft smile he receives in return. “Besides, you’re here now.”

“Mm. I suppose so.” Viktor gently tugs Yuuri’s hand from his hair and presses a light kiss to his palm. “Now, what do you say we find something less boring to read?”

Viktor’s quick to locate a book titled, “The Complete Anthology of World Dances.” He takes a seat on a snug settee and motions for Yuuri to join him, and they cozy together as Viktor flips to the section about the Land of Ice and Snow. To Yuuri’s delight, the book is packed with illustrations of the country’s various ice dances, and he marvels over each new choreography, remarking at each turn of page that _this_ is the one they have to learn, Viktor, it’s so _beautiful._ Viktor only chuckles and murmurs ardent promises that they will, he’ll even invite the land’s premier choreographer to the palace to teach them personally, and he keeps his hand steady beneath Yuuri’s as they flip the pages together.

Yuuri could spend hours like this, but he knows that’s an impossible dream, a fact made most apparent when the library doors burst open and a throng of palace staff shuffle in, their combined whispering echoing in the quiet corner sheltering Yuuri and Viktor. The staff find their prince in impressive time--a feat that Yuuri’s sure is due to decades of exhausting practice--and implore Viktor to return to his duties.

Yuuri’s eyes narrow at Viktor. “I thought you were finished with your duties for the day.”

Viktor gives a light-hearted shrug and laughs it off. “I decided to reschedule a few things!”

Yuuri has an inkling that Viktor neglected to tell anyone else about his _rescheduling._ But before he can chide Viktor for it, Viktor’s back to bartering with one of the attendants for a few more minutes. The attendant appears to be well-versed in Viktor’s antics and his liberal interpretation of time, and when he drops Yakov’s name, Viktor relents with a hefty sigh. He rises off the settee and gives Yuuri a plaintive look. “I apologize, Yuuri. Duty calls, I suppose.”

Viktor accompanies his staff out of the library, though not before promising Yuuri that he’ll see him at dinner tonight. Yuuri confirms that he’ll be there, unable to fight his goofy smile as Viktor grants him a final wave before disappearing through the library doors. But he doesn’t miss the venomous looks that follow from a couple of the attendants. The smile falters.

Regardless of Viktor’s intermittent disappearances, Yuuri’s still determined to make the best of the day, considering it started with the best morning possible. Despite any outside judgments or any internal anxieties, it would be a waste to let them plague his afternoon. So he decides to leave them behind in the palace.

He strolls alone through the palace grounds, figuring that if he’ll find any peace of mind within a three-mile radius, this is his best bet. He supposes that after yesterday’s flurry of events, he ought to sort his thoughts together. Not that he has many thoughts to sort. He’s still overflowing with feelings--smoldering, buzzing, all-consuming. He’s a small fire, still burning amid this frigid landscape.

He’s so comfortably ensconced in his feelings that he very nearly stumbles into Yurio.

“Hey!” the boy barks. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Ah, sorry, Yurio.” Yuuri blinks, readjusting his eyes to his sun-washed surroundings. He’d been content to wander aimlessly, permitting his feet to wend him at will through the grounds’ winding paths. It probably wasn’t the wisest plan for a stranger in a foreign tundra.

Yurio’s lip curls at Yuuri’s use of the nickname, but he doesn’t address it. “Whatever,” he says, looking askance down one of the paths. “I’m surprised Viktor’s not with you. I was sure he’d weasel out of his duties somehow to spend time with you.”

“Oh, he tried,” Yuuri admits. “But your staff are pretty diligent. We had maybe ten minutes together before they dragged him back.” A waver sneaks into his voice as he adds, “I’ve hardly seen him since this morning.” Red immediately flushes his face, and he prays Yurio didn’t catch that slip of vulnerability.

“Oh. I see.” Yurio’s face is impassive and unreadable, which Yuuri finds more worrisome than his usual scowl. But his tone is blunt as ever: “You know he’s a prince, right? I know it’s easy to forget, since he never actually acts like one, but he’s heir to the throne all the same.” Yuuri doesn’t think he _could_ forget that, much as he’d like to; he’d nearly managed it back in Hasetsu, but here it’s an ever-present facet of Viktor’s existence and, by extension, whatever sort of relationship exists between them now. “So long as he’s prince--or king, as he’s soon to be--he can never be yours.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen. “I’m not asking him to be-”

“I didn’t say that _you_ were.” As Yuuri puzzles over Yurio’s words, the teen’s voice drops to a mutter. “He’s mentioned you before, you know. Before he traipsed off into your world, I mean. Never by name, but...if you followed the threads, you could tell he was talking about the same person. I thought you were some old friend who had died of plague or something. Mila actually had a theory that he was projecting some neurosis on an imaginary friend. Honestly the safest assumption would normally be that Viktor was just spouting bullshit, because that’s his modus operandi, but he always got so mopey over the whole thing. It was insufferable, and it was all because of you.” The last word knocks the breath from Yuuri’s lungs. Yurio slouches deeper, burying his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “He’s still insufferable, of course, but...different now, than he was two weeks ago. I think more people are starting to notice.”

Yuuri’s already aware of that much; his mind flashes back to the baleful looks the attendants had shot him this morning. His face burns, but from something distinct from embarrassment. “Yurio, can I tell you something?” he asks. Yurio shrugs, which Yuuri interprets as assent. He sucks in a breath, then: “I had no memory of Viktor until two weeks ago, when he came through the portal into my world.” Yuuri catches Yurio’s widened eyes and braces himself for the barrage of blame, for the deserved admonishments that he should have already _told_ Viktor, because now the truth will hurt him even more.

But the blame never comes. Yurio’s brow furrows as he mutters, “Interesting.”

Yuuri’s still pondering Yurio’s response when the teenager’s hand rockets upward. “Hey!” he calls, his eyes focused on something just past Yuuri’s shoulder. “Otabek! Over here!”

A sturdily-built young man with dark hair approaches the two of them, giving Yurio a curt nod in greeting. “Yuri,” he says, his voice every bit as level as his demeanor. Prince Otabek is equal parts intense and courteous as he exchanges introductions with Yuuri, and Yuuri marvels at how irascible Yurio could have become friends with such a stoic person. But he doesn’t miss how Yurio’s shoulders relax at Otabek’s presence, how the corner of his lips curls into a rare hint of a smile, how light his steps are as he and Otabek head down the path together. Yurio probably isn’t aware of how soft he looks whenever he drops the prickly facade.

A sharp gust of wind whisks by, and Yuuri shivers as he bundles deeper into his coat. He takes a seat on a nearby bench, allowing his boots to sink into the fluffy snow. At least he’d been sensible enough to bring appropriate footwear today. He stares at his feet as Yurio’s words twist through his mind over and again: so long as Viktor is prince, he can never be Yuuri’s. But Yuuri had never asked that of him. He’s always known, ever since he’d first stumbled out of Viktor’s armoire, that Viktor would always be out of his reach, part of something far greater than Yuuri could ever hope to be.

But maybe, in spite of that, some foolish part of Yuuri _had_ hoped.

Another gust of wind whistles through the grounds, and this time it blows right through him. Perhaps it’s time to head back inside.

 

Dinnertime arrives not a minute too early for Yuuri’s grumbling stomach. He’s quick to settle near the head of the table beside Viktor, while the rest of the seats are filled by now-familiar company. A fire roars in the chimney behind him, banishing the chill from his back; Viktor laughs easily beside him, and it banishes the chill from his chest. Yuuri’s smile is indomitable as he links his fingers with Viktor’s over the table.

“Really?” Chris heaves a dramatic sigh and rolls his eyes. “You two are nauseating. Have you even _looked_ at anyone other than each other tonight?”

Well, Yuuri’s _glanced_ at other people. But after spending nearly a full day without Viktor, he thinks it’s hardly fair to blame him for being a little clingy.

Viktor smirks. “I don’t see why I’d want to look at anyone else.”

It earns a disgusted groan from Chris, Mila, and Georgi--and nearly from Yuuri, too, whose face flushes red. At least Yurio and Otabek are fully engaged in their own conversation at the opposite end of the table, Yuuri acknowledges with some relief, or else he’d surely be subject to Yurio’s cruel jabs as well.

Chris’ nose twitches. “Gross.”

He’s hardly in a position to judge, considering the ample purple marks spotting his neck, haphazardly covered with the barest layer of concealer. Knowing Chris, that might have been intentional. Yuuri’s face burns under everyone’s attention, but Viktor only laughs it off, giving Yuuri’s hand another squeeze. It helps to wash some of the embarrassment away; at least everyone here is a friend, and their teasing is all done in good fun. It’s a welcome change from the pernicious looks Yuuri’s earned during his travels around the palace today. He allows himself to relax again, squeezing Viktor’s hand back while slipping him a small, bashful smile. He’ll bear the teasing, the judgment, the glares, if this is what it means. Viktor is worth all of that and more.

Midway through dinner, an attendant approaches Viktor and bends down to mutter in his ear. As he backs away, Viktor rises from his seat, his expression contrite. “Yakov’s requesting my presence for a matter concerning the coronation,” he announces to the table, though his eyes are drawn only to Yuuri. Their fingers are still tangled together even as he moves to leave, and his voice drops to a murmur: “I’m sorry. Will you wait for me?” Yuuri nods, unable to stamp out his disappointment as Viktor’s fingers finally extricate themselves from his own.

He ought to get used to this, he thinks, chastising himself for such sensitivity. Yurio had warned Yuuri earlier that Viktor could never belong to him. And Yuuri knows he’s right. He has to learn to share Viktor, even if his heart feels it’s earned the right to be more selfish after last night. So he forces his attention back to the conversation at the table, throwing his mind into the discussion even though his heart yearns to be somewhere else.

Yuuri retreats to Viktor’s room after dinner’s end, the guards once again allowing him to slip through without issue. The room is predictably empty; had Viktor finished his meeting early, Yuuri has no doubt Viktor would have found him already. That thought, at least, is enough to drive Yuuri’s disappointment away for now.

Yuuri settles onto Viktor’s plush mattress, kicking off his shoes as he observes the room’s decor. Between his full belly and the cozy warmth of Viktor’s bedroom, it’s a challenge for Yuuri to keep his eyelids open. But he manages it, at least long enough for him to locate the drawing he’d made for Viktor over fifteen years ago, and something tickles in Yuuri’s chest. Perhaps there is some small part of Viktor that belongs to Yuuri, and Yuuri alone, after all. It’s a pleasant thought to accidentally fall asleep to.

Some time later, Yuuri’s startled awake by jostling on the other side of the bed. He blinks a few times, his eyes adjusting to the sudden darkness of the room. He mumbles a slurred “Hm?” as Viktor sidles in beside him on the mattress.

“Sorry,” Viktor says in a hushed tone. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Yuuri yawns as he pushes himself up. A blanket falls from his shoulders. Strange. He doesn’t recall that being there before. “Sorry. I guess I should go.”

In the darkness, Viktor’s hand somehow finds his own. “Or you could stay.”

There are certainly plenty of good arguments for Yuuri to return home tonight, but here in the darkness of Viktor’s bedroom, ensconced in the cozy shelter of Viktor’s bed, Yuuri’s drowsy mind finds more than enough reason to stay. “Mm,” he mumbles, settling back down on the mattress. He feels the heavy blanket draw back over his shoulders once again and he cocoons himself into the comforting warmth. “Okay.”

 

When white rays of winter sunlight stir Yuuri awake the following morning, the bed is just as pleasantly toasty as last night--but it’s missing a distinct something.

Well, a distinct _someone._

Yuuri rolls over on the mattress in hopes of finding Viktor by the armoire, but he finds himself face-level with a modest mountain of pastries instead. He props himself onto one elbow, adjusting his glasses before retrieving the note sitting beside the platter on his nightstand. Inscribed on the paper, flourished with elegant curls and whisps, is a single word: _Yuuri._

A smile twitches at his lips. He’d expected another lengthy note full of apologies and promises to meet later, but Viktor must not have had enough time this morning. Still, Yuuri notes, eyeing the monstrous heaping of pastries on the nightstand, Viktor evidently had time for _some_ things. The kitchen staff must be mortified by Yuuri’s supposed appetite.

He selects a single pastry--a crispy, buttery morsel that melts in his mouth--and heads for the portal. At least Viktor’s absence gives Yuuri enough time to make himself a little more presentable. It’s Yuuri’s only real consolation for his abandonment. No, not _abandonment_ , he chastens himself. It’s unfair to think of it that way. But for all Yuuri’s earnest attempts to accept that Viktor has duties and people and an entire _kingdom_ , his selfishness only hungers for more. Of course, it’s not fair to Viktor, it’s by no means sustainable, and it’s surely going to end in disaster for both of them, and Yuuri really just needs-

He really needs a cold shower, for one.

He emerges from it a few minutes later, feeling a little more clear-headed. Yuuri slips into his own bedroom to change and then back through the portal, his brief visit wholly undetected by his family. Well. Maybe not Mari. He’s not sure anything ever gets past Mari.

In addition to the fresh clothes, Yuuri returns to the Land of Ice and Snow with his own pair of ice skates. These should keep him occupied while he waits for Viktor. Yuuri pulls a pen from Viktor’s nightstand and flips the note from before. “ _Viktor_ ,” he writes in broad letters, attempting to mimic Viktor’s stylish handwriting and producing something more akin to caveman scrawl. “Meet me at the pond? Bring your skates.”

Yuuri would prefer to skate on the royal ice rink, but in the aftermath of the ball, the pond’s seclusion makes it a safer option. Through some strategic navigation, Yuuri encounters only about a dozen pairs of prying eyes on his way out of the palace. Once outside, he hastens his step, eager to skate the chill off his bones. He’s beginning to understand Viktor’s fascination with summer; picturesque as this land is, its ever-present winter is losing its novelty. Snow, Yuuri decides, is most beautiful as an ephemeral thing.

He reaches the pond and makes quick work of assembling his skates. Ever since he watched Yurio skate here the other day, his feet have been itching for the familiar pressure of his own skates. At long last, Yuuri steps onto the pond’s frozen surface. He doesn’t bother to test it first; it’s probably frozen all the way down.

After a few warm-ups, Yuuri falls into the familiar pattern of an old routine. It’s easy to lose himself here, to let his mind drift and leave his movements up to muscle memory. It takes him back to those quiet nights at the Ice Castle during his youth, when Nishigori would let him sneak in after the facility had officially closed. Despite the pristine scene around him now, Yuuri almost misses the rink. The pond is nice, but it doesn’t feel like home.

Without his phone, Yuuri’s unable to keep track of time, but he estimates that only one hour passes before Viktor arrives at the pond. He’s pink in the face and gasping for breath, his smile radiant as ever as he greets, “Yuuri!”

Yuuri’s skating slows to a stop at the edge of the pond. “Are you okay?” he asks, regarding Viktor with a furrowed brow. “You look like you’ve been running.”

“I have been!” Viktor gives a breathy laugh. “I wanted to get here before you left.” He lowers an embellished pair of skates to the ground and slips off one of his boots. “I probably should have worn warmer socks. Oh well! At least I remembered to grab a coat!”

“I doubt your attendants would have let you venture out here without a jacket.” Yuuri presses his lips together as he observes Viktor lacing up his second skate. “Come to think of it, I’m surprised they haven’t accompanied you out here. And where are your guards?”

Viktor shrugs. “I gave them some time off.”

Yuuri’s shoulders slump forward. “You _ditched_ them, didn’t you? Viktor, don’t tell me you’re skipping some important duty right now.”

“Just a minor appointment, nothing crucial.” Viktor waves his hand flippantly. “Don’t worry about it. They’ll be fine.”

“You don’t think they’ll be worried about their missing prince?”

“I think it’s not as big of a deal as you’re making it out to be.”

“Well, _I_ think it’s exac-”

Yuuri’s argument is truncated as Viktor steps into his space. Slender fingers reach beneath Yuuri’s chin, tilting his face up until their noses nearly touch. “Yuuri,” Viktor says, his breath visibly billowing onto Yuuri’s face. “The palace staff will find me here sooner or later, which also means that sooner or later, I will be spending the remainder of my day fulfilling duties that I have no interest in with people who I have no interest in. _So_ , as I see it, I can either turn back now and get a headstart on all that misery, or I can spend a precious few minutes with you. Tell me, which option do you think I might prefer?”

“I still think you’re being irresponsible,” Yuuri grumbles, even as he grips Viktor’s hand and leads him onto the ice.

Viktor cracks a smile. “I don’t remember ever advertising myself as anything else.” Their fingers remain intertwined as they trace the perimeter of the pond together, both of them content to leave complicated choreography for another day. “I missed this,” Viktor says.

It’s a ridiculous thing to say, really, considering they’d skated together for _hours_ just two days ago.

“Me too.”

A few minutes pass without interruption from the palace staff, and while the snap of a nearby twig turns out to be the fault of some burrowing animal, it’s enough to jolt Yuuri. Viktor raises a single eyebrow. “Something wrong?” he asks.

Yuuri shakes his head, noting that his grip on Viktor’s hand has tightened. He doesn’t relax it. “No. I just… I keep expecting the palace staff to find us. I’m surprised they haven’t already.”

“Hm. Me too.” Viktor grins. “I guess you picked a good hiding place. I should have thought of this years ago.”

“Are you sure this is really okay, though?” Yuuri eyes one of the palace’s brightly patterned spires. “I wouldn’t want to be a distraction-”

“Ah, Yuuri, but you’re my favorite distraction.”

Pink blooms in Yuuri’s cheeks. He diverts his eyes toward the ice, tucking his chin further into his bulky scarf. Viktor chuckles beside him, soft and rumbling, and warmth swells in Yuuri’s chest. It wouldn’t be fair to the Land of Ice and Snow, but Yuuri would very much like to keep Viktor here with him forever, or better yet, to sweep Viktor back to Yuuri’s world and become something greater than a distraction.

But those thoughts aren’t fair to anyone, most of all Viktor, whose royal duties are burdensome enough and-

Yuuri stops. Thinks.

But not for too long, because had he considered his words more carefully, he probably wouldn’t have blurted out, “Viktor, do you even want to be king?”

He knows it’s a mistake the moment Viktor freezes to a stop, inadvertently jerking Yuuri’s hand back. His brow knits together, forming a sharp crease. “What?” The single word just squeaks out, high-pitched and half-strangled, forming a sickening pit in Yuuri’s stomach.

“Sorry,” Yuuri’s quick to sputter out. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Viktor says, squeezing Yuuri’s hand for emphasis. “I just...don’t usually get asked that question, except when it follows a long rant about something I’ve done wrong.” His gaze is drawn to their joined hands, extricating his fingers from Yuuri’s only to press the pads of their fingers together. “I’m not sure there’s any worth to me thinking about that question anymore. It doesn’t matter whether I want to be king or not. In the end, that’s what I have to be. I know my duty.”

Yuuri trails his thumb over Viktor’s knuckles, watching his own breath billow in the still air between them. Spurred by uncharacteristic boldness, he says, “I think it matters.”

Viktor’s eyes widen, his fingers stiffening in Yuuri’s grip. “What?”

“It matters,” Yuuri repeats, lifting his attention from Viktor’s hand to his bright eyes. “What you want, I mean. I think you should be happy with the life you choose.”

The vivacity that usually thrums in Viktor’s voice falls flat. “This is what I’ve chosen.” The words are near-automatic, stilted and seemingly borne of years-old resolve. Yuuri’s hand drops from Viktor’s.

“Oh. I see,” he murmurs. “Sorry. I just...thou-”

“ _VIKTOR!_ ” The silence surrounding them fractures. It nearly startles both of them out of balance, clinging to each other as they recover from the shock. Yuuri and Viktor turn in unison to see a balding, red-faced man storming across the grounds toward them, a horde of palace staff in tow. “Idiot boy! Is this where you’ve been this whole time?”

On instinct, Viktor’s expression shifts into a mollifying smile, passably sincere to anyone who doesn’t really know him. “Ah, Yakov!” he greets, making no motion to leave the ice. “I wasn’t expecting-”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Yakov bellows, making Yuuri wince even though it’s not directed at him. The regent marches toward the ice, a severe scowl dominating his face, and Yuuri suddenly understands why threats regarding Yakov are so effective on Viktor. Few people in the Land of Ice and Snow would dare confront their prince, but his uncle seems ready to do so on all of their behalf.

Viktor ventures away from Yuuri’s side, mincing across the ice toward Yakov. A chill sweeps into Yuuri, and he instinctively trails after Viktor. “Now, Yakov,” Viktor says, maintaining his perfectly practiced, light-hearted tone. “I’m sure that whatever’s wrong, we can-”

He’s snatched off the ice by his collar, the fabric balled in Yakov’s trembling hand. A hushed, collective gasp comes from the palace staff, but not one of them makes a move. Viktor tries to right himself best he can, looking more like a fawn than a grown prince, his shoulders still hunched as he remains tethered to Yakov’s grip. His uncle seethes, “You skipped our meeting with the delegation from the Land of Rolling Hills! The diplomats took such offense to your absence that they left without making any negotiations. We have worked for _years_ to establish an alliance with Emperor Cao Bin, and you’ve just communicated to his entire delegation that you can’t be bothered to show up for one meeting!”

Viktor’s voice emerges strangled: “Yakov, I’m-”

“Moreover, your sudden absence has sent the whole palace into a panic! Their prince has gone missing without his guards, and without any explanation. Now, _I_ know you’re careless, but your subjects are meant to believe you’re better than that! What sort of confidence do you expect to inspire in the crown when you disappear without warning? You have a _duty_ , Viktor, and you’re-”

“ _I know!_ ” Viktor forces himself out of Yakov’s grip, stumbling back a few steps until he nearly hits the edge of the ice. His shoulders slump as he draws his gaze toward the ground, his voice soft and vulnerable as he mutters, “I know. I’m so sorry, Yakov.”

Yakov scoffs. “Don’t make apologies you can’t commit to.” He turns his back on Viktor and heads in the direction of the palace, motioning for Viktor to follow. Yakov heaves a sigh before grumbling, “Come at once. We’ll have to devise some way to rectify this situation before your carelessness obliterates another hard-fought alliance.”

“O-of course.” Viktor hurries a few awkward feet after his uncle before apparently remembering his ice skates. He tears them off and shoves his feet back into his boots, not bothering to fasten them before scurrying after Yakov again. He doesn’t spare even a glance at Yuuri as he departs, much less a goodbye. Instead he leaves Yuuri alone on the ice, frozen and numb as the herd of palace staff trails behind its royals.

Well, nearly alone. A shock of blond hair stands out against the crisp blue sky, and Yuuri can’t fathom how he missed Yurio’s presence before. Yurio approaches the pond wordlessly, his silence a stark contrast to the commotion that transpired just moments earlier. Yuuri’s tempted to say something--offer some sort of greeting, or some sort of apology--but none comes. There’s a flurry of jumbled thoughts swirling in his head, a frantic pounding in his chest, a sick churning in his stomach, and yet none of it manifests into spoken language.

Yurio digs the heel of his boot into the snow. “I thought he might be with you,” he says, not bothering to make eye contact. “And I thought _you_ might be here. For someone so unreliable, Viktor’s surprisingly predictable.”

Pain flares in Yuuri’s chest, fighting its way up his throat as he chokes out, “I-It’s not his fault. I told him to… It’s my fault, Yurio. I’m sor-”

“Maybe I wasn’t clear yesterday.” Yurio cuts Yuuri off with a swift, baleful glare. “So long as Viktor is bound to the throne, he cannot live with a foot in your world.”

The words shouldn’t rattle Yuuri the way they do, shouldn’t tear the breath from his lungs, because he knows all this already. He’s known this for near decades, has reminded himself of it again and again like a mantra ever since Viktor traipsed into his own world just two weeks ago. And yet, he’d allowed himself to forget. He’d chosen to be selfish. He’d taken _joy_ in keeping Viktor from his people, from his duty, and now Viktor is suffering for it. Something young, fragile by nature, shatters within Yuuri.

“Okay,” he exhales, his voice barely above a whisper. Perhaps the wind’s enough to carry it to Yurio, who’s already started back toward the palace on his own, but he doesn’t give any indication he’s heard it. Yuuri’s fingers tremble at his sides, perhaps only from the cold, though Yuuri can’t feel it now. His eyes land on Viktor’s skates, the blades jutting out from the snow, looking every bit as tossed aside as Yuuri feels. He should take them back to Viktor.

No. Viktor’s sorting out the mess they made. Yuuri should just take them back to Viktor’s room and leave them there for him to find. And then he’ll go back through the portal--go home, help his family around the onsen, stop breaking everything he touches on this side of the portal.

He steps off the ice and yanks Viktor’s skates out of the snow. Yuuri’s spent the better part of a week allowing himself to be swept up in some fantasy tale. It’s time to finally return to reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pfft, foolish Yuuri and Viktor... "Agricultural Methods of the 15th Century" really hits its stride in the second chapter.
> 
> So...hi? I guess it's been a while! I meant to have this chapter up at least a month ago, but the past couple months have been straight insane. I really appreciate everyone's patience!
> 
> Hopefully the next one will be up sooner rather than later. I loved reading your wonderful comments on the previous chapter - thanks as always for those. :)


	10. The Chain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Chain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tt_1ED3KiN0)

Dinnertime rolls around at the palace and it’s splendid as always. The platters are piled high with slabs of long-marinated meat and crisp, roasted vegetables; bowls simmer with rich soup to banish the winter chill; an entire dessert course, sweet and indulgent and enough for an army, waits in the kitchen. The company surrounding the table is jovial and familiar, reveling in the cozy warmth emanating from the fireplace. It’s perfect, as always.

Or, at least, Yuuri imagines it is. He’s in a bedroom a universe away from that dining room; his bare feet are pressed against the cold floor as he rummages through his things. His stomach is empty, though it doesn’t yearn for food. Everything feels empty now; it’s all cold, darker than usual. His breaths are heavy; the air is thicker, like water, and he’s drowning in it.

Yuuri pulls his jacket off the back of his desk chair and shoves his hand in one of the pockets. He grasps its contents, and he chokes back a sob as he extracts them from the garment. He shudders through a deep breath, collecting himself. He can’t drown just yet. Not while he still has someone else to save.

Swallowing his nausea, Yuuri slips through the portal. Viktor’s bedroom is still empty, with no sign that the prince has been there since Yuuri passed through earlier. Perhaps he’s still at dinner, Yuuri thinks hopefully. Maybe he’s not still being chewed out by Yakov. Maybe he’s not trying to rectify an international crisis. Maybe he’s not wandering the palace, searching for Yuuri in a state of panic.

Yuuri sinks onto the bed. This is why he has to stop, he reminds himself, just as he has every time his resolve has wavered today. It’s nearly a mantra now. Yuuri’s hand tightens around the weight in his pocket. It’s not like this is complicated. It’s killing him, sure, but it’s not complicated. He’s doing this for Viktor, because he loves Viktor more than he-

Yuuri’s breath catches. The blood drains from his face. That’s it, isn’t it? _Love._ He loves Viktor. All this time he’s been searching for the name of that pervasive feeling, and it’s only now, at the end of everything, that he’s realized it. An ugly, guttural sob bursts out of him. Yuuri pulls his fist from his pocket and furiously wipes at his fat tears with the cuff of his sleeve. Name or not, it doesn’t really matter now, does it?

Nausea roils in Yuuri’s gut. His entire body catches fire, sweat trickling down his forehead as his chest heaves with sobs. He can’t be sick in Viktor’s bedroom, he scolds himself. He has to pull himself together, at least for the remainder of this evening. At least until he can retreat to his own closet and fall apart there, away from any prying eyes, any concerned loved ones. If Viktor discovers Yuuri in this state, he’ll never be able to follow through with this. That thought, at least, is enough to dessicate Yuuri’s tears for now.

Viktor bursts through the bedroom doors shortly after, looking haggard as he catches his breath. “You’re here!” he rasps out. He shuts the door and strides across the room toward his bed. “Yuuri, I’m so sorry for earlier. I feel so awful, I just left you there and-” He reaches out to cup Yuuri’s cheek, only to freeze when Yuuri jerks back. Viktor’s hand falls, as does his expression. “I messed up,” he mutters. “Yuuri, please, I’m sor-”

“It’s not you,” Yuuri insists, trying to make his own expression kind. It still feels watery; Viktor can probably see right through it. “Please don’t apologize.”

Viktor’s brow furrows, his eyes still wide with worry. “Then what’s wrong?”

“I…” Yuuri pushes himself off the bed, wobbling on unsteady legs as he creates distance between Viktor and himself. His heart pounds in a frenzy, each screaming beat rocking his entire body. Yuuri shudders a sigh. “I think it’s time we ended this.”

A moment passes in silence. Viktor looks frozen in it, stuck in place with his mouth slightly agape. At his side, a single finger twitches. His response finally comes as a mere exhale: “What?”

Yuuri straightens his back, forcing himself to maintain eye contact, even though every nerve in him pleads to look away. “Tonight, I’m going to go through the portal into my world,” he says, fighting the waver in his voice. “And I’m not going to come back.” His stomach turns at the finality of it. Pressure builds behind his eyes. _Not yet._

“But why?” Volume builds in Viktor’s voice. His entire body is rigid, tense, as he steps toward Yuuri, extending his hand toward Yuuri’s cheek once again. “Yuuri, why would you-” Yuuri shuffles out of his reach and Viktor’s hand falls, defeated, back to his side. His watery gaze follows it.

There’s no disguising the trembling in Yuuri’s voice now. “We both know I don’t belong in this world. It’s not… It’s not working. I thought it could, but we gave it a good try, and... _we_ don’t work. Not like this.” His entire body is aflame, shaking under this unbearable, increasing weight. “You can’t balance me _and_ being king.”

Viktor’s tears fall freely now. His hands tremble at his sides, not bothering to reach up and dry his eyes. Every instinct in Yuuri urges him to go forward, to envelop Viktor in his arms and wipe his tears away and apologize, to promise that he’ll stay by Viktor’s side forever. Yuuri holds himself back.

He digs into his pocket, his palm sweaty around his cargo, and then hands it over to Viktor. “I...want you to have this,” he says, hand quivering as Viktor gingerly takes the parcel.

Viktor opens the envelope and dumps the contents into his palm. He studies the photos with a furrowed brow as he shuffles through them, lips drawn into a thin line.

“They’re the pictures you took in Hasetsu,” Yuuri explains. “I wanted you to have something to remember your time in my world by. Something to remember _us._ ” His voice breaks at the last word.

Viktor stares at the photos for a moment longer. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sends the slides flying. A few lucky ones land on his bed; the rest flutter wildly to the floor. Yuuri takes a stunned step back as Viktor mutters, “I can’t believe you- You thought... _this_ would be…” He trails off as he plops onto his bed, burying his face in his palms. His shoulders tremble, and Yuuri can distinctly hear Viktor’s muffled sniffling, and he hasn’t a clue what to do.

“I’m sorry, Viktor,” he says at last. Never before have words seemed so useless; they can’t encapsulate even a fraction of what he feels. “I’m so sorry.” When Viktor doesn’t respond, Yuuri murmurs, “I guess I’ll go, then.” Viktor doesn’t grant him so much as a glance, his face still buried in his hands.

So this is it. Nearly two decades since Yuuri stumbled into this fantastical world and first laid eyes on Viktor, two weeks since their impossible reunion, two days since their first kiss, and this is how it all ends. Yuuri’s clammy hand closes around the handle of the armoire. He should say “Goodbye,” he supposes, or “I’ll miss you,” or “I love you.” He ought to say _something_ to conclude the most wonderful chapter of his life. But even if he could think of the right words, he couldn’t summon his voice to say them.

Instead he swallows a sob, steps into the armoire, and shuts the door behind him. A quick, clumsy trip through Viktor’s linens and Yuuri’s back in his own closet, safely ensconced in the darkness. At long last, he crumples to the hard floor and allows himself to drown.

 

Yuuri doesn’t sleep that night. He emerges from the closet in a fog, fumbles his way to his bed, and collapses onto the mattress. And then he ponders. He pines. He resists the urge to rub at his eyes, already bloodshot and saturated with tears. He ought to feel some resolve about now, right? Some sense of comfort in knowing he’s done the right thing?

Instead he gets a gaping hole inside his chest, a stubborn headache, and a bed that feels cold and entirely too big. It’s only taken him a few nights to get accustomed to sharing Viktor’s bed. He should have known better.

Hindsight’s useless at quelling his tears.

Hours pass, and sunlight trickles through the window blinds. And while Yuuri has no real motivation to get out of bed, there’s a sleep-deprived restlessness buzzing in his limbs that impels him to wander downstairs. He stumbles upon his family bustling about the kitchen; Hiroko shovels a generous mound of food onto his plate--perhaps this is where Viktor found his inspiration--and enthuses over Yuuri joining them for a meal for the first time in “forever.” Yuuri gratefully pretends to eat it, picking the food apart piece-by-piece until it’s nearly unrecognizable. Only Mari notices when he dumps it in the trash.

Yuuri volunteers for chores, partly out of guilt and partly from desperation, and goes through the rote motions with a remarkable lack of focus. He tries not to think about what Viktor’s doing right now. Or if Viktor’s thinking about him. Or if he isn’t. Yuuri’s not sure which option hurts more.

A sharp whack to his head from his broom handle knocks him out of his thoughts. Mari’s holding it with a firm grip; Yuuri’s not sure when she extracted it from his hands. “You’re scaring our guests, zombie boy,” she says. “Go take a nap.”

It’s not the worst idea. At least, not until Yuuri’s arrival to his room is greeted by a high-pitched whine at his closet door. He freezes midway to his bed, bating his breath as he listens. A few seconds pass with nothing but more whimpering, and Yuuri breathes a sigh of relief that Makkachin hasn’t brought any company with her.

“Go away, Makkachin,” he mumbles, his bed creaking as he climbs into it. Makkachin yips, and Yuuri can hear the steady thumping of her tail against his floor. Maybe he should have stayed quiet. “Come on, Makkachin, go back to- Go home.” The whining persists, followed by a steady scratching at the closet door. Yuuri throws his pillow over his head, pressing it to his ear. When he shoves it aside a couple minutes later, the room is silent.

Sleep denies him all the same.

As dinner wraps up, with Yuuri’s plate still mostly full, he contemplates heading down to the ice rink. But then he remembers the last time he was there, skating alongside Viktor, so caught up in their dumb competition that they’d raced home beneath the streetlights, just the two of them alone, just Yuuri and Viktor. Yuuri’s breath hitches. He can’t go back to the ice rink now, not with that memory haunting him. Damn Viktor for tainting Yuuri’s one source of solace. Damn Yuuri for allowing him to.

His greatest source of distraction comes from Minako, who enthusiastically fulfills her role as wine aunt, and fills their cups to the brim with some mystery alcohol. Yuuri loses track of the hours, taking a sip every time Minako hurls a criticism at a sports journalist on their little television. From the corner of the room, Mari dries dishes with her head bowed, occasionally shooting furtive glances toward Yuuri. He pretends not to see them.

Yuuri’s not sure what’s to blame--the alcohol, basing his ill-advised drinking game on Minako’s many serious opinions, or his own extensive history of bad judgment--for him calling Phichit from his bedroom at two that morning. His best friend picks up straight away.

“Yuuri! You _just_ missed Ciao Ciao! I left his office literally one minute ago! Anyway, I’m really mad at you. Like I love and respect you as a human being, but you’ve also completely broken your promise to keep in touch with me. I’m not just some old boyfriend you can ghost on, you know.” He stops for a half-second to inhale. “Anyway, how have you been?”

“I- I’m fine,” Yuuri mumbles, his muzzy gaze trained on the ceiling. “So, uh...what have I missed?”

There’s a pause at the other end, then: “What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“Yuuri, what’s wrong?” Urgency takes over Phichit’s tone, stripped of all its prior buoyancy. “Do you want to video chat? I’m heading back to the dorm right now, so I can easily-”

“No, no, you don’t need to do that!” Yuuri blurts out, already bogged down by guilt. “Sorry, it’s noth-”

“Nothing? Yuuri, I can hear you crying.” Yuuri suddenly becomes aware of the wetness beneath his eyes. “You obviously called me for a reason,” Phichit continues. “And I want to help. Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you? Whatever it is, I promise I won’t judge you.”

“You might.”

“I _promise._ ”

Yuuri heaves a sigh as he falls back against his pillows, sending his glasses askew. He contemplates his words for a while--long enough that if it were anyone other than Phichit on the call, they’d probably have prompted him to start talking already. But Phichit, reliable best friend that he is, only waits until Yuuri’s ready. Yuuri drags his palm down his cheek, still warm from the alcohol, and gives in.

“So, there’s this guy.”

“Viktor,” Phichit confirms.

“A _guy._ ”

“Sure.”

“And...he’s a figure skater, let’s pretend. In fact, let’s say we’re _both_ figure skaters, only he’s a prodigy and I’m...average.”

Phichit tuts into the phone. “Yuuri, you know you’re already a prodigy figure skater, right?”

“Not the point, Phichit.” Yuuri’s not in the mood to argue about minutiae right now. “Anyway, he’s won all these gold medals, he’s the pride of his country, he’s basically the future of the sport. And then we meet and...I don’t know, he coaches me or something. Takes a whole season off as a figure skater just to coach this _nobody_ , and the whole figure skating world is upset, his country is devastated, and I’m just squandering his future as a figure skater. It’s not fair, right?”

“Hm.” There’s a brief pause from the other line. “I’m not sure. I think it depends on what he wants. He chose to coach you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, but he also wants to go back to being a top-ranked figure skater. That’s always been his dream. But he can’t balance his own training _and_ coaching me. Even if he wants both, it’s more important for him to return to his career, isn’t it?”

“I mean, to _you_ , it might seem that way. But that might not be what _he_ thinks is more important.” When Yuuri doesn’t respond, Phichit sighs. “Yuuri, what did you do?”

Yuuri flops his arm over his eyes, letting his tears seep into his sleeve. “I ended our contract.” There’s silence from the other end. Yuuri mutters, “Phichit, you said you wouldn’t judge.”

“I’m not judging,” Phichit rushes. “I’m just trying to figure this out. Yuuri, are you saying you broke up with Viktor?”

“I never said it was Viktor.”

“Are you sure this is what he wants?”

“No...but also yes, sort of.” Yuuri rubs at his eyes. “It’s complicated. He wants both things, but like I said, he can’t balance them. It’s wearing him thin. Maybe it’s not exactly what he wants, but it _is_ what he needs.”

“Yuuri, I-”

“Besides, it’s not like this is a huge loss for him.” A fresh batch of tears break free, cascading down Yuuri’s bunched cheeks and onto the pillow. “He- He’s amazing. He’s kind, and charming, and he’s going to find someone else who’s perfect for him. But I can’t be that person. All I’m going to do is weigh him down, and that’s why I...that’s why-”

“You’re not a burden, Yuuri.” Phichit’s voice is soft, just as it’s been every other time he’s uttered those words. Yuuri stifles a sob into the crook of his arm. “And even if you were, you’re a weight he’s chosen to carry. But I’m sure he doesn’t even think of you that way.”

“That’s part of the problem,” Yuuri mumbles.

“You should talk to him.” Before Yuuri can protest, Phichit continues, “Maybe take some time to reflect, and then really _talk_ with him. See if that’s what he actually wants.”

Yuuri sniffles. “I think it’s too late for that.”

“Maybe. But you won’t know until you try.” Yuuri’s silent for a long moment, his eyelids growing heavy, and Phichit prompts, “Yuuri? Are you still there?”

“Mm. Sorry, Phichit,” Yuuri mumbles, releasing his grip on his phone so it drops to his pillow. “Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping much.”

He can nearly feel the gust of breath as Phichit sighs. “Okay. Why don’t you catch some sleep, Yuuri? I’ll check in with you in the morning.”

Yuuri nods, both too tired and too inebriated to care that Phichit can’t see it. “Thank you.”

“Never a problem. Good night.”

Yuuri’s phone goes dark. He blinks a few times into the blackness of his bedroom, already so close to sleep. Like a creature of starvation, he devours it.

He awakes before sunrise, and squints at his phone as it flashes with several notifications. Yuuri fumbles for his glasses, adjusts them awkwardly on his nose, and winces at the bright display. Three new texts, all from Phichit:

“Hey! Please stay in touch with me! I’m here for you even if you don’t want to talk about the THING anymore.”

“But since you did, I just want you to know that I appreciate you opening up to me! You never really did that before. Even when drunk. (Yes, I could tell.) Proud of you, buddy.”

“Also, here’s a pic of the hammies to cheer you up!”

The barest smile tugs at Yuuri’s lips when Phichit’s hamsters take over his screen. He sends back the most eloquent message he can muster at 5 AM: “Thanks, Phichit.”

He heads downstairs, prepares a bowl of cereal that he probably won’t eat, and wanders outside to watch the sunrise. He takes a seat on the bench, now notably one person short. But Yuuri will have to adjust to that. He can only move forward now, even if he can’t stomach breakfast, even if the sunrise is obscured by gray clouds, even if the seat beside him remains empty.

But this morning, at least, it’s filled. Mari crosses her legs and lights a cigarette, briefly eyeing Yuuri’s pecked-at bowl of cereal before diverting her attention to the sunrise. Yuuri bates his breath for a concerned comment, some blunt observation, but none comes. Instead, the two of them allow the silence to wash over them like heavy fog, salient but benign.

Yuuri breathes a small sigh of relief. In the distance, the sun peeks over the bare treetops, a hazy dome of light to stir the rest of the town awake. It’s a peaceful scene, maybe. Sleepy. Quaint, even. It’s largely lost its charm after the million times Yuuri’s seen it, but Viktor would probably find something beautiful in it. Yuuri’s quick to shake the thought from his head. _No more._ He can’t lose himself to regretting what-- _who_ \--he left behind. The only choice he has is to keep moving forward, even if every morning feels as empty as this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone needs a friend like Phichit. And also probably a couple of hamsters.
> 
> This chapter would have been up much earlier, but I was busy and I hated writing it. Genuinely I have no idea how some of you write darkfics because I felt bad just putting Yuuri and Viktor through this.
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much to those of you who commented on the last chapter! I'm not always able to respond, but please know that I read and appreciate each one! :)


	11. Heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Heroes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsvuipGq2ns)

Yuuri’s eyelids flutter open sometime before dawn. He fumbles for the light switch in the pitch black, nearly tripping over more than a few stray shoes, and winces when light finally floods the room. It’s too early to be awake. Even his parents won’t start setting up for the day for at least another hour. But Yuuri would rather get a headstart on his chores than lie in bed for a couple more hours, begging his brain for a precious few minutes more of sleep, so instead he dresses himself and heads downstairs.

There’s a numbing comfort in carrying out his daily routine; he doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to feel. (Naturally, he still thinks and feels too much.) He doesn’t even have to talk to anybody, save for his parents and Mari; he doesn’t have to fake a smile for anyone, save for his parents alone. Mari, predictably, isn’t buying his act. But at least she’s not pushing the matter. In the past, Yuuri would assume that meant she’d given up. But now he knows Mari deserves more credit than that. Presumably, she understands that he doesn’t want to talk. Yuuri’s not sure what’s changed--maybe in Mari, more likely in himself--but it provides an inkling of comfort.

Hours press on, each one contributing more weight to Yuuri’s limbs as he completes his chores. Even though his mind is still resistant to sleep, his body is starving for it. When he fails to suppress several dramatic yawns during lunch, Hiroko firmly suggests that he take a break; Yuuri’s protests that he has more chores to do fall on deaf ears, possibly because he’s done most of them twice-over today. Defeated, Yuuri trudges upstairs to his room.

He’s seated in bed, silently bemoaning the futility of any attempt at a nap, when a _thud_ echoes in his closet. Yuuri groans. “Makkachin, come _on_ -”

The closet door bursts open. “Who the _hell_ are you calling Makkachin?” Yuuri scrambles to the far end of his bed as blond rage incarnate stomps into his room. He means to offer some manner of greeting, but when he opens his mouth to speak, nothing comes. Yurio’s lip curls. “What the hell is wrong with you? You look like a damn fish.” He mimics Yuuri’s pathetic gaping before rolling his eyes. “Anyway, I’m actually here for a reason. You need to come back.”

Yuuri nearly chokes on air. “What?”

“No doubt you’ve forgotten, but the coronation’s today.” Yurio shuts the closet door as he strides further into the room. “And Viktor’s freaking out, so you need to come back.”

A nauseating pit forms in Yuuri’s stomach. “No, I… I don’t think that will help anything.”

“Why? Because you broke up with him?” Yuuri shies away from Yurio’s withering glare. “Don’t worry, he didn’t _tell_ any of us,” Yurio says, crossing his arms. “But you can imagine how obvious he’s been about it. I thought he’d be more bearable with some of the life drained out of him, but honestly, he’s worse than ever. You’ve actually made me _pity_ that moron, and I think I’m going to resent you forever for that.”

Yuuri’s shoulders droop. He stares at his hands, twining his fingers together as he blinks back tears. “I didn’t mean to do that to him,” he murmurs. “I never meant to make him feel that way.”

“Well, you did, and it’s all your fault, and now you’re coming back to fix it.” Yurio swings the closet door back open for emphasis. “So, let’s go. Quickly, piggy. We don’t have much time.”

Yuuri remains in place. “Yurio, I’m telling you, things are only going to get worse if I show up. I’ve already upset Viktor enough. If he sees me, I…” He takes a shuddering breath. “The whole coronation will be a mess, if it even happens at all.”

“ _Good._ That’s the plan.”

Yuuri jerks his head up, studying Yurio’s expression for any trace of mockery. But the teenager is stone-faced. “You’re...serious?”

“Of course I am.” Yurio crosses his arms as he slouches against the closet door. “You didn’t think I was bringing you to convince Viktor to actually _take_ the crown, did you?” When Yuuri doesn’t reply, still too stunned to speak, Yurio sighs. “Look, Viktor doesn’t want the crown. Yakov knows that, I know that, Chris and Mila and Georgi and everyone else in that damn palace knows that. Only _Viktor_ , thick-skulled as he is, doesn’t know that.”

“But he _does_ want it!” Yuuri insists, leaning forward until he’s nearly tipping off the mattress. “I’ve asked him, and he-”

“Okay, small correction.” Yurio rolls his eyes. “Only Viktor and _you_ , idiots that you are, don’t know that he doesn’t want to be king. Didn’t you understand a word of what I’ve been telling you these past couple of days?”

“But he told me-”

“What? That it was his duty? Did he pull the ‘it doesn’t matter whether I want it or not’ card? Come on, piggy, does that really sound to you like a man who wants to be king?” Yurio snorts. “Viktor has never wanted any of this; he’s only resigned himself to it because he thinks it’s his duty. And now he’s going to suffer for it, and honestly so will the rest of us, unless someone convinces him to reason. And he won’t listen to anyone in his family, or even _Chris_ , but I think Viktor might listen to the one thing--the one _person_ \--that he truly knows he wants.”

Yuuri levels his gaze at the floor, his shoulders bunched painfully. “You don’t know that,” he mutters. “You don’t know that Viktor really feels that way.”

“You mean his all-consuming infatuation with you wasn’t obvious enough?” Yurio sighs and raps his knuckles against the door, drawing Yuuri’s attention up. “Okay, then. Let’s have a talk about this portal. Funny thing, isn’t it, opening up for a couple years and then closing again for, what, the next fifteen? So capricious, it’s almost like it has a mind of its own. Or feelings, maybe.” He pads toward Yuuri, stopping just a couple of feet away. “Pop quiz time. What happened fifteen years ago in the Land of Ice and Snow, just before the portal closed?”

Yuuri’s brow puckers. “I guess...there was that plague? That was about the right time, wasn’t it?”

“Right. Full points.” In some additional alternate universe, maybe Yurio makes a living as a crabby gameshow host. “It would have been pretty terrible for you, a small kid, to crawl through the portal back then, wouldn’t it? Viktor must have known that.”

Yuuri’s voice softens as he affirms, “He told me he prayed everyday that I wouldn’t come through.”

“There you go.” Yurio snaps his fingers, as though he’s solved some mystery Yuuri’s yet to even identify. “Cut to two weeks ago: the portal reopens. So think hard, piggy, what happened two weeks ago?”

“I...came home,” Yuuri says, racking his brain. Somehow two weeks feels like an eternity ago. “And _nothing_ happened. I did chores, I cleaned up my room, I found that old book I made for Viktor, and-”

“And then you remembered him,” Yurio finishes for him, the corner of his lips quirking up, somehow even more smug than before. Yuuri’s face burns.

“ _Yes_ , and then I remembered him,” he says curtly. “What does that have to do with anything? If your theory is that the portal only works when Viktor and I remember each other, then believe me, I’ve already thought of that and it doesn’t _work._ I still remembered Viktor even when the portal closed up all those years ago. I _pleaded_ with it to open for months, and it refused. The portal just doesn’t make sense, so-”

“Slow down there, piggy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Then _don’t_ call me Yurio!” The two of them pause, catching themselves red-faced and mere inches apart from each other. Yurio takes a few steps back as they each take a deep breath. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m just trying to prove a theory here. Bear with me, _please._ There isn’t much time.”

“Then stop with all this quiz nonsense,” Yuuri says. “Just tell me what your theory is, because for the life of me, I can’t figure it out.”

“Okay. My theory is that the portal doesn’t open unless someone _wants_ it to open. Well, two people, actually. One on either side of the portal.” Yurio paces the whole four-foot width of open floor in Yuuri’s bedroom. “Specifically, I think the portal requires that those people want to see _each other_. That’s why the portal closed fifteen years ago. Viktor didn’t want you to come through it, and by the time he thought it was safe, you had already forgotten him.” Yuuri’s breath abandons him. So it had been his fault all this time. Yurio continues, “It also explains why it reopened once you remembered Viktor. _And_ why it hasn’t closed during your time in our land, since you have friends and family on this side.”

“But Viktor had friends and family on _your_ side, and it still closed for a few days!” Yuuri points out.

“Right,” Yurio’s quick to reply. “But Viktor didn’t want to be found. Makes sense that his dumb dog was the one who finally found him, since she’s probably the only one of us he wanted to see.”

“But…” Yuuri struggles to think. It’s nearly impossible to match words to his feelings, to the jumbled thoughts swirling through his brain. “But how could Viktor and I have opened the portal all those years ago? We didn’t even know each other then.”

Yurio ceases his pacing, shooting Yuuri a pointed look. “Are you telling me there wasn’t any point during your childhood when you felt desperately lonely? When you wished you had someone else, even if they were imaginary, who could understand you?” Yuuri freezes. “Right,” Yurio says. “That’s what I thought.”

Yuuri stares at his hands, cold and pale, as his mind races. It all makes sense. Of course it does. He’s desperate to throw another rebuttal Yurio’s way, to insist for pride’s sake that the portal is a mystery that just can’t be solved, but Yurio is _right._ Yuuri breathes out, “I guess...that’s it, then.”

“I know.” Yurio sounds too smug, but Yuuri’s not in the right mood to call him out on it. “You were asking me how I could know what Viktor’s feelings are. Well, here’s your proof.” Yurio knocks on the closet door again. “We both know there’s no one else on the other side of this portal who wants to see you. There are people who _like_ you, for whatever reason, but can you think of anyone, other than one person, who really _wants_ you? You know as well as I do who’s keeping this portal open.” When Yuuri doesn’t respond, eyes still drawn to his hands as he sorts through a chaotic rush of emotions, Yurio prompts, “So? Let’s go back and talk Viktor out of this nonsense.”

Yuuri shakes his head, grasping onto the barest sense of sobriety amid this barrage of feelings. There’s a building pressure at his eyes, a breath caught in his lungs; his hands are cold, clammy. “I can’t,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“I can’t ask that of him.” Yuuri straightens, looking Yurio in the eye. “Even if he doesn’t want it, I know what it means to him. I can’t ask him to throw that all away for _me._ ”

“So you would let him throw his entire life away instead.” Yurio’s lip curls. “Just so you don’t have to feel _selfish_? Just a few minutes ago, you were convinced he would say no. And now you’re afraid to ask in case he says _yes?_ ” Yurio kicks the closet door with a booming _thud._ “Unbelievable. You really are idiots, the both of you.”

Yuuri’s shoulders fall. “Yurio, I- I’m sorry.”

“Whatever.” Yurio swings the closet door open, side-eyeing Yuuri as he steps into the small space. “Maybe I was the stupid one for thinking this would work. Mull it over, though. There’s still a few hours left. But if you decide not to come, can you do me one favor?”

Yuuri nods. “What is it?”

“Don’t ever come through this portal again.” The door slams shut.

 

The coronation ticks closer and closer, and Yuuri distances himself from the portal. He busies himself with mopping around the baths and tries not to think about Yurio’s theory, or about how the coronation could be happening right now and Yuuri’s doing _nothing_ to stop it. Because this is what he should be doing.

Right?

He can’t make sense of it. He can’t make sense of anything at all. Yuuri’s plan had been so logical; in fact, despite the hurt it’s caused him, he’s stuck with it precisely _because_ it was logical. Regardless of his feelings, letting Viktor go was the right thing to do.

And then Yurio stomped through the portal and told him that it _wasn’t_ , and now Yuuri’s pulse thrums through him, an unyielding torrent of nerves and panic. He can barely keep the mop upright as he drags it in rote, useless circles.

A soft hand falls on his own. Warm eyes gaze into his. Hiroko smiles and says, “It’s not very busy right now. Come and sit with me.”

Together they pass through the house and settle on the bench overlooking the town. The sun peers out from behind fluffy clouds, not enough to be blinding, but just enough to brighten their little corner of Hasetsu. Hiroko’s smile is the same--warm, patient, forgiving; it’s the same smile that’s always brought Yuuri comfort - tinged with guilt as well, though Hiroko can’t be blamed for that.

She turns toward him. “You seem distracted.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s hardly even a demand for truth, though to Yuuri, it might as well be. He heaves a sigh, leaning his elbows onto his knees. “Mom, can I ask… When did you know you wanted to spend your life with Dad?”

“Oh?” Pink dusts Hiroko’s cheeks, as though she’s a teenager again, and her smile turns shy. “I don’t think there was an exact moment. I probably wasn’t even sure that it was something I wanted. Love’s much more complicated than anyone ever makes it sound.” She gives an easy shrug. “But I did know that I was much happier with him than without him.”

“I see.” Yuuri wrings his fingers in his lap. “What if you weren’t sure you could be with Dad, though? What if he were someone really important? Like the heir to a huge company, or a politician, or...or a prince, even.”

Hiroko laughs. “Your father, a prince?”

Yuuri’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Sure. Let’s pretend he was a prince.” The smile vanishes as Yuuri elaborates, “What if being with him meant he would lose everything he had?”

“That seems like an exaggeration,” Hiroko says, her brow furrowing slightly. “Besides, he wouldn’t lose _everything_ , would he? He would still have me.”

“Okay, bad phrasing,” Yuuri admits. “But what if being with you meant he had to give up his throne?”

“Well, that would be Prince Toshiya’s decision, wouldn’t it?” Hiroko chuckles at the title.

Yuuri purses his lips as he ponders her response. Then, after a moment: “So, you would really ask him to do that?”

“Of course! It’s not up to me to decide anything for him.” When Yuuri doesn’t respond immediately, Hiroko’s expression softens. “You think it’s selfish to ask that of anyone, don’t you?” She grants her son a soft smile. “Of course you would. You’ve always been wary of being a burden, always been so generous toward everyone but yourself. But that isn’t how love works. Love isn’t just sacrifice; it’s compromise. It is conversation. It requires _two_ voices, not just the one in here.” In a swift motion, she leans up and pecks a kiss to Yuuri’s forehead.

She sits back down, cradling Yuuri’s cheek in her hand. “Oh, my sweet boy,” she says, her voice the jingle of windchimes in a summer breeze, the steady patter of spring rain, the crinkling of a newspaper at the kitchen table. “When Viktor was here… I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone so happy.”

Yuuri’s face grows warm, and he diverts his gaze to his hands. His voice fights past the lump in his throat: “He does make me very happy.”

“I meant both of you.”

Yuuri’s attention snaps back to his mother, whose face is as bright and hopeful as he’s ever needed it to be. He leans toward her and presses a light kiss to her cheek. “Thank you, Mom.” He rises to his feet, striding toward the house with more verve than he recalls possessing. Hiroko doesn’t ask him where he’s going, or when he expects to be back. Maybe she knows. Maybe she’s always known, in some form or another.

Boy, Yuuri loves her. He loves all of them--Hiroko, Mari, Toshiya. Minako and Phichit, Yuuko and Takeshi. And he loves Viktor! How could he have deluded himself into thinking that meant nothing? Now he can’t think of anything that’s ever mattered more.

A single note, fastened to the inside of the armoire’s doors, helps Yuuri find his way. “The coronation is being held in the Grand Hall,” it reads, in writing far too scratchy to belong to Viktor. “Easiest way to get there is to head to the ground floor, follow the corridor from the staircase to the ice rink’s antechamber, and take the first left from there.” Yuuri swipes it into his pocket, lest he forget the directions in his rush of adrenaline, and bounds out of Viktor’s bedroom into the near-empty hallway.

If the guards dotting the halls are surprised to see Yuuri, they don’t show it. More than likely, they’re still under instruction to regard him as an official guest. Yuuri might have hurt Viktor, but Viktor’s nowhere near wrathful enough to have shared that with the rest of the palace. The thought rends painfully in Yuuri’s chest, guilt churning in his stomach, but he shoves the feelings down. He’ll fix this. Or, at least, he’s going to try.

His heart pounds in his chest, a steady thrum to match his feet, as he winds his way down to the ground floor. Already he can hear the susurrant murmurs of a not-so-distant crowd, and he follows them, his steps a feather-light patter along the carpet. Yuuri passes by the antechamber, sparing it the barest glance, permitting just a brief flash of nostalgia before hurrying onward. He swings around the next corner and spies his destination: a magnificent, ornate arch set into the wall, barred by two sturdy doors, each one at least twice Yuuri’s height. Another hallway, perpendicular to the one Yuuri scurries down now, leads up to the arch; it’s adorned with carpeting dyed in the royal red, and lined nearly shoulder-to-shoulder by armed guards.

Yuuri struggles to catch his breath as he approaches one of the guards closest to the doors. “E-excuse me,” he stammers. Yuuri hadn’t prepared himself for _this_ particular obstacle. Viktor might have guaranteed his freedom to wander freely through the castle, but Yuuri doubts he’s granted him entry to the coronation. The guard casts Yuuri a look of unmasked disdain. Still, Yuuri presses on, faking a royal bravado: “I would like to enter the Grand Hall. Please, uh...sir.”

Before this moment, Yuuri’s been asked to act exactly once in his life: during a play back in elementary school, for which he’d been assigned the role of a lamb. He had no lines, yet still cried from stage fright. Some fifteen years later, he’s putting on a repeat performance.

The guard scrunches his nose, unimpressed by Yuuri’s weak attempt. “Do you have an invitation?” he drawls, fully expecting the only answer Yuuri can give.

“I, uh…” Yuuri fumbles through his pockets, hoping he’s being convincing enough. Viktor would have no problem with this, surely. If their roles were switched, Viktor would have just flashed a charming smile at the guard and been permitted entry straight away, no further questions. Yuuri offers the guard a sheepish smile. “I seem to have misplaced mine. But I’m a personal friend of Prince Viktor, and he has requested that-”

“No invite, no entry.” The guard rotates away from him, returning to his post.

“Come on,” Yuuri pleads, his voice losing any of the fake authority it had left. You _have_ to know who I am! Just ask Viktor, or- or if he’s busy, then Yurio, or Chris, or Mila and Georgi! The guard’s face remains impassive as he continues to ignore him. Yuuri’s pulse quickens. He tugs at his hair. “ _Please_ , I have to get in there! If I don’t, I don’t know what- I don’t know-”

“Is there a problem here?” The question is loaded with authority, an infallible confidence that Yuuri could never hope to emulate. He turns. Strolling down the corridor, arm-in-arm and fashionably late, are King JJ and Isabella. JJ’s smile is broad, his eyes shining as they land on Yuuri. “Ah, you… You’re Viktor’s friend, aren’t you?” Yuuri is entirely sure that JJ has forgotten his name.

Yuuri nods. “Yes. It’s, uh, it’s nice to see you again.” He hopes JJ isn’t about to launch into another long-winded brag about Isabella and himself. Yuuri’s running short on time as it is. Every minute he wastes is a minute closer that Viktor gets to that crown, a minute closer to a future that neither of them want.

“Likewise!” JJ grins. He and Isabella approach the doors, flashing their invites at the guard without so much as a glance. The guard gives a nod to those manning the entrance, and they step aside to allow the couple to pass through. But JJ and Isabella stay put. “You seem to be in disagreement with the guards,” JJ observes.

“Yeah,” Yuuri mumbles, his face turning pink. There’s no dignified way to explain his predicament to the proud couple. “I, uh… I really need to see Viktor before the coronation, but I’ve, um… I’ve lost my invitation.” Best to keep the story the same for consistency’s sake. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he confesses. “If I don’t find Viktor, if I don’t tell him, I…” He trails off, his hope waning.

“So you’ve come to confess your love for Viktor.” Yuuri yelps, instinct driving him to protest the assumption, no matter how accurate it is. But before he can, JJ gives a nod toward the guard. “And he won’t let you in?”

Yuuri shakes his head sheepishly.

“Hm.” JJ sends the guard a disdainful look; the guard’s professional enough to pretend not to notice it. “Here you are, showing up here with such passion, such love, only to be turned away. No one has any respect for grand, romantic gestures anymore.” Yuuri’s face burns impossibly redder. JJ turns to his fiancée. “Such a shame, isn’t it, Isabella?”

“The _saddest_ ,” she agrees, her voice so affected that Yuuri’s sure they’re mocking him. “I so wish there were something we could do to help- Oh!” She crumples to the floor, barely catching herself on her hands.

“Isabella!” JJ drops to the floor beside her, immediately flanked by several guards, and eases her into a sitting position. “Are you hurt? Is it your ankle?”

“Ah, yes! It’s my ankle!” Isabella says, drawing more guards toward her. “I- I feel so sick, like I might faint!”

JJ motions to the guards still posted at the door. “Did you hear that?” he bellows. “Why are you just standing there? My fiancée, the future queen of the Land of Great Lakes, is dreadfully ill, and you refuse to help her?” The guards exchange a nervous look. “I am a _personal_ friend to King Viktor,” JJ continues, “and when he hears that his guards refused to attend to my critically injured wife, what do you suppose he’ll do?” The guards take a tentative step away from the door. “Yes, yes, hurry now! She can’t walk to the infirmary herself, now can she?” It’s enough to lure the guards away from the doors, huddling around Isabella and gently lifting her by the shoulders. Amid the chaos, JJ looks back at the doors, catches eyes with Yuuri, and winks.

Gratitude fills Yuuri’s chest, overflowing. He wishes there were away to express it, to thank JJ and Isabella for what they’ve done, but he can’t risk alerting the guards. He settles for two thumbs up, pathetically inadequate, and makes a mental note to give them a proper thanks later. And then he slips through the door, leaving JJ and Isabella and all the guards behind. “ _Gentle!_ ” JJ’s voice carries into the Hall as he chastens the guards. “What part of ‘this is my fiancée’ don’t you understand?”

The Grand Hall is fully deserving of its name, the interior vast and shining and adorned wall-to-wall in the royal family’s red and white, with plenty of gold for pure ostentation. And yet for all its enormity, Yuuri feels suffocated upon entry; the Hall is packed with people--dignitaries, guards, attendants--all chattering away, their voices echoing against the Hall’s high walls. Yuuri weaves his way through them with small utterances of “pardon” and “excuse me,” and not a single one of them pays him any mind. Perhaps he’s been gone long enough to become insignificant again.

Yuuri dances along on his tiptoes as he moves, trying to peer over shoulders and around backs of heads for any sign of Viktor. But he can barely make out the dais at the opposite end of the room, upon which sits a shining, gilded throne. Yuuri’s stomach drops at the sight of it, but he collects himself quickly, noting that the throne is, at least for now, still empty.

He’s still wending between dignitaries, intent on heading closer to his throne, when a hand seizes his arm and yanks him backward. He stumbles a few steps, trying to right himself and avoid crashing into any dignitaries, and then dares a look up at the furious guard.

Only it’s not a furious guard. Not unless Chris has taken up a new position in the palace, anyway. “I thought I spotted you,” Chris hisses, tugging Yuuri to the outskirts of the Hall, where they receive a small reprieve from the crush of its center. Chris is dressed in a blue and violet outfit that glimmers beneath the flickering lights of the chandeliers, and his dark-lined eyes narrow as he releases Yuuri from his grip. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m…” Yuuri searches for the right words. He’s already bared his soul for JJ and Isabella, of all people, and he plans on doing the same for Viktor later, naturally. But Chris, too? Fate’s really sending him through the ringer today. “I’m here to…” Chris’ eyes narrow, and Yuuri gulps. “I’m here to tell Viktor how I feel!”

Chris furrows his eyebrows. “Let’s see. You woo Viktor until he’s totally in love with you, then break his heart and leave, and now you’re back to...confess your _feelings_?”

“I know it sounds bad,” Yuuri says, dropping his gaze. “It _is_ bad. But I want to fix things. I want to give Viktor a choice. I _love_ him.”

When he risks a glance up at Chris, the other man is pinching the bridge of his nose. “Impossible,” he mutters. “You idiots really are made for each other.” He heaves a sigh, visibly unbunching the tension in his shoulders. “Okay. You might just be the last chance we have, anyway.” He turns on his heel and heads down the Hall, motioning for Yuuri to follow. “I was hoping you two would get around to this discussion earlier,” he chastises as they meander between chatting attendees.

Yuuri blushes. “I know. We should have. I was stupid about it.”

“You were _both_ stupid about it,” Chris says. “But I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, even if it was at the last minute. I only hope Viktor can do the same.” They approach a well-guarded door at the end of the Hall, and Chris only needs to nod toward the guards to grant the two of them entry. “There’s only one problem with your plan, though,” he says. The door swings open, revealing the royal family waiting inside; Georgi mutters to himself as he paces the floor, Mila’s forehead is creased with tension as she speaks a mile-a-minute with a small cadre of guards, and Yakov tugs violently at his hair as he frantically confers with his advisors.

The door shuts behind him. “Viktor isn’t here.”

“What?” The word takes all of Yuuri’s breath with it.

“He disappeared on us,” Chris explains. “Yuri’s directing the efforts to find him, but we couldn’t send too many guards out at once. We can’t alert our guests to the fact that their prince has gone missing during his own coronation.” He heads for an unassuming doorway. Yuuri follows numbly. “Viktor said he was heading out for some fresh air, but he’s been gone for over an hour. Maybe we should have expected as much.” Chris shrugs. “Maybe Yuri did. He seemed more furious than surprised. But he told me to keep an eye out for you, mentioned you might be making an appearance.”

Yuuri opens his mouth, poised to ask Chris what he should do, when the door bangs open. A small cluster of guards pushes through, led by a small, enraged teenager. Yurio shakes the snow from his hair, grumbling something about “stupid princes” and “that complete moron.” He glances at Yuuri, his expression devoid of surprise, and narrowed into bitterness. “You’re here,” he observes flatly.

Chris jumps in before Yuuri can respond. “I take it you didn’t find him.”

“Does it _look_ like we found him?” Yurio rips off his gloves, throwing them unceremoniously onto a nearby settee. Meanwhile, the rest of the room has taken notice of Yurio’s arrival, and they gravitate toward the door. “I swear we’ve looked everywhere. He must be deliberately hiding from us.” He paces the floor, shoulders bunched. “I sent a couple guards on a perimeter search of the palace grounds. So far, nothing. I checked his bedroom, the library, even that pond.” He sends a sharp look Yuuri’s way. “And nothing.”

“None of the guests have noticed yet,” Chris says. “But they’re bound to soon.”

Yurio groans. “It’s inevitable, anyway. Thanks for trying to keep them distracted.” He turns to Yuuri again, his expression still hard. “All this wouldn’t have happened if you’d shown up earlier.”

Yuuri shrinks, his face burning. “I know. I’m sor-”

“ _Don’t_ apologize,” Yurio cuts him off. “It’s not entirely your fault. It’s that idiot who has decided to shirk his duties _today_ , of all days.” He crosses his arms and pauses for a moment, eyes appraising Yuuri. “Any idea where he might be?”

“ _Me?_ ” Yuuri’s brows knit together. “Haven’t you already searched the entire palace?”

“It’s a big palace,” Yurio says matter-of-factly, as though he’s speaking to a child. “And we can’t send out many more guards without arousing suspicion. It’ll take them a couple more hours to search the whole grounds, and by then, the guests will have noticed something’s wrong.” He sighs as he pulls a loose, blond lock from his face and tucks it behind his ear. “Whether I like it or not, you might just be our best bet at finding Viktor.”

“But how can I do that if you couldn’t?” Panic flares in Yuuri’s gut. Everyone’s eyes are on him, pressing him to save the day, when he’d only come to save one person. “I don’t know this palace nearly as well as the rest of you.”

“True, but you do know Viktor,” Mila chimes in. Yuuri hadn’t even noticed her presence by his side. She steps in closer, faces him, and murmurs just under anyone else’s hearing, “Look, I don’t know everything about who you are or where you’re from. But I do know that you and Viktor used to sneak around this palace as children. That he always spirits you off somewhere whenever you come to visit. That when he ran away a couple weeks ago, it was for _you._ ” When instinct drives Yuuri to avert his gaze, Mila takes his hand in hers, dragging his attention back. Her eyes are wide and blue, not so different from the ones Yuuri loves. “I’m not saying you know Viktor better than any of us. But you do know him _differently._ Can’t you think of any place Viktor might be? Anywhere he might have mentioned, anywhere he might have taken you?”

Yuuri racks his brain for an answer, rakes through the blurred decades for any memory, any clue. He watches his hand disappear through the portal for the first time, as new light floods through the opening armoire doors; he follows Viktor into the vast library, down the meandering paths of the palace grounds, in circles around the iced over pond; he sneaks through the palace corridors once again, winding his way down to the kitchens, pursuing the cozy smell of fresh bread; and then he-

And then he _knows._

His gaze meets Yurio’s. “I know where he is.”

Yurio gives quick nod. “I’ll go with you.” He signals over his shoulder for two of his guards to follow him, then instructs the rest of the crowd: “Chris, Mila, Georgi - go mingle with the attendees. They’ll start getting antsy otherwise. Yakov and I can handle things back here.”

“And what if you still can’t find him?” Yakov asks. The advisors around him still look unconvinced, their scrutinizing eyes peeled on Yuuri.

“Then I’ll handle it,” Yurio says simply. One of the guards swings the door open again, and a gust of cold wind blusters through. Yurio’s voice drops so only Yuuri can hear it: “You’d better be right about this.”

Yuuri nods. “I’m sure of it.”

And then they’re racing along the perimeter of the palace, their guards struggling to keep up. The wind bites at Yuuri’s face, making his eyes water, but he barely registers it. His pounding heart is an engine, a furnace shooting fire through his veins, flames licking at his feet as he sprints through the snow. There is nothing--no bitter cold, no palace guards, no fears--that can divert him now.

The ice rink draws into view and Yuuri slows his pace, his throat raw and burning in the cold. He frantically searches the scenery for a flash of silver hair, a pair of bright eyes, that ethereal creation of winter - but there is none. The scenery is stark, just an empty rink dusted by fresh snow. Beside Yuuri, Yurio hisses, “Is this it? Did you really think I wouldn’t have sent guards to search Viktor’s favorite procrastination spot? He’s not _here._ ”

“No.” Yuuri’s breath billows in the frozen air. He stumbles a few steps forward. “No, he has to be here. Viktor!” His feet beat through the snow again, his heart drawing him closer and closer to the rink, his lungs pouring out every last breath of air as he calls, “Viktor? Viktor!”

And then, just as Yuuri rounds the furthest curve of the rink wall, Viktor arises from behind it. Yuuri slows to a stop, just a couple feet from Viktor. It’s still too far, and all Yuuri wants is to reach out, to bridge the gap between them. He’s already spent fifteen years separated from Viktor; what a fool he was for daring to do it again. For the past few days he’s been drowning. Now his brown eyes meet blue, and breath floods his lungs.

Viktor’s pose looks unsteady, snow falling in clumps from his robes; he must have been sitting there for a while. His expression is dazed, his eyes underlined with deep rivets, and he blinks a couple times before he speaks, his voice barely carrying above the wind: “Yuuri.” It pitches up near the end, like it’s a question.

Yuuri isn’t sure how to answer. “Hi,” he musters sheepishly. It’s not enough. His words, this distance between them - they’re not enough. Instinct drives Yuuri forward, closer to Viktor; he allows it a single daring step, gauging Viktor’s response.

For all it’s worth, Viktor permits it, keeping his own feet stationary in the snow. “Yuuri,” he breathes again, and this time it’s surer. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m…” Yuuri scrambles for words. He’s new to this; he’s spent so many years avoiding it, burying his words and feelings inside his chest. They’re still messy and imperfect, but he will liberate them for Viktor. “I’m here for you.”

There’s a flicker in Viktor’s eyes, bright and surprisingly _alive_ , despite the fatigue on his face. “I...thought you didn’t want me anymore,” he mutters. Yuuri’s chest clenches. “You left. You weren’t going to come back. I thought…”

“I was wrong,” Yuuri rushes in. “I was stupid, and so scared, and...I’m sorry.” His shoulders fall. “I’m so sorry, Viktor. I could say that a million times and it wouldn’t be enough.” Yuuri runs his fingers through his hair, loosening the snow that’s piled atop it. “Of course I want you. I- I can’t believe I made you feel that way because it’s the furthest thing from the truth. Viktor, I’ve _always_ wanted you.” Viktor watches him with wide eyes; fear thrums through Yuuri, warning him against his next words, but a stronger feeling drives them through: “I love you.”

The words hang in the still air, young and hesitant, given life by pure hope. Viktor doesn’t react, his expression unreadable. Yuuri tries again, emboldened by the familiarity of the words; even if he’s never spoken them out loud, he’s felt them countless times before. “I love you, Viktor. I think...I always have, but I didn’t _know_ what it was or...or how to handle it, and…” He gives a rueful huff, swinging his arms out to the side as he casts his gaze askance. “I’m not good at this. I’m terrible at it, honestly, and instead of protecting you, I _hurt_ you and I-”

A hand fists in Yuuri’s shirt and then he’s falling, crashing into Viktor. Strong arms encircle him, pulling him tighter to Viktor’s chest, and Yuuri melts into it, pressing his nose into the familiar shoulder as he fails to blink back tears. Viktor murmurs, “I was so afraid I’d never see you again.”

“I know.” Yuuri chokes back a sob. “I know. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t apologize.” Viktor’s fingers wind into Yuuri’s hair. “Just don’t… Don’t do it again, please. I don’t think my heart could survive it.” With his face pressed into the junction of Viktor’s neck and shoulder, Yuuri can only manage a fervent nod. Slowly they extricate themselves from each other, though Yuuri’s fingers remain intertwined with Viktor’s.

Viktor’s face is as tearstreaked as his own. Yuuri lifts a single hand and brings it to Viktor’s cheek, his thumb wiping away the shiny wetness. “I’m with you,” he promises. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

Viktor cracks a smile. “Are you sure? Forever’s a big commitment to make.” It drives more tears from Yuuri’s eyes; he moves to wipe them away, but Viktor’s hand is there first. Once his fingers have dried Yuuri’s cheek, Viktor leans in and presses a kiss there. “I love you, Katsuki Yuuri.” He moves to the other cheek, repeating the motion. “I love you.” He tilts Yuuri’s face up, pausing for a moment as their eyes meet, and then presses his lips to Yuuri’s. The kiss is light, fleeting, but Yuuri can still feel Viktor’s lips move against his own when they whisper one final, “I love you.”

And then, in one swift motion, Yuuri’s slung his arms around Viktor’s neck; Viktor’s arms wrap around his back again, lifting him enough for their foreheads to clunk together. _Idiots_ , Yuuri can almost hear Yurio think from some yards away. Yuuri breaks into a laugh, deep and euphoric and long overdue, and Viktor echoes it as he spins them enough times to make them both dizzy. When he sets Yuuri back onto his own two feet, Yuuri has to cling to Viktor’s hands to keep from falling.

They remain that way for a few moments longer, their fingers still intertwined, smiles still firm on their faces. Yuuri was an idiot to think he ever could have let this go. No world--not this one, nor Yuuri’s own--is nearly as bright without Viktor there to experience it with him. But now he’s _here_ , they’re both here, and the thought broadens Yuuri’s smile. Viktor matches it for a moment. And then it falters.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” The droop returns to Viktor’s shoulders, all his energy drained in just a matter of words.

Yuuri’s thumb traces circles along Viktor’s hand. “What do you _want_ to do?”

Viktor glances away, shaking his head. “That doesn’t… It doesn’t matter-”

“Yes, it does!” The words are unusually bold as they burst from Yuuri, startling Viktor’s wide-eyed attention back onto him. “What you want _does_ matter.”

“Yuuri, I’ve told you before, I don’t have a choice.” There’s no anger in Viktor’s voice, only deep-rooted resignation. “This is what I’m supposed to do. Regardless of what I want, I have a duty, and I…” He heaves a sigh, his hands dangling limply where they meet Yuuri’s. “Besides, what else is there for me?”

“You can come with me.”

Viktor blinks a couple of times, registering the words. So is Yuuri. He’d thought about proposing it before plenty of times, sure, but he hadn’t considered actually voicing it _now._ Viktor exhales, “What?”

“I…” Yuuri tries not to stutter his next few words. “You can come with me, back to my world. We’ll find something for you there, and you can stay with me and my family, and...we’ll just live there, I guess, in that world. We’ll go to the beach, and the Ice Castle, and...and eat breakfast together _._ I don’t know. I can’t promise it’ll be perfect, but we can make it work.”

Viktor stares at him for a couple seconds, seemingly pondering the proposal; Yuuri swears his heart stops until Viktor shakes his head and mumbles, “That’s not fair, Yuuri.” His gaze drops to their held hands. “I would… You _know_ I would, if I…” He heaves another sigh. “I don’t have a ch-”

“I’m _giving_ you a choice. Look at me!” Yuuri tugs at Viktor’s hands until his eyes meet blue once again. “I’m giving you a choice,” he repeats. “Regardless of what you choose, I want you to at least have that.” Yuuri’s shoulders bunch, painfully tense, as he says, “I can’t make this decision for you. Not again. It’s nobody’s choice but yours.”

Viktor’s eyes widen for a brief moment before his gaze drops again, back to the wind of his fingers through Yuuri’s. He’s quiet, the only noise between them the steady rush of winter air. A fragile, wary hope sparks in Yuuri’s chest; it urges him to keep talking, to convince Viktor past the point of uncertainty. But Yuuri stays silent. He can’t push Viktor on this, not after promising him a choice.

At last, Viktor mumbles, “But if not me, then who…” He trails off as he lifts his head and his gaze catches not on Yuuri, but something just past Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri cranes his neck, following Viktor’s lead; waiting several yards behind them, flanked by two guards, is Yurio. With his chin tilted against the wind, he looks ever defiant, ever in charge.

Ever ready for his role.

“What if I fail?” Viktor’s whispered question snaps Yuuri’s attention back. Viktor’s gaze is again drawn downward, unfocused as he murmurs, “I don’t know any life other than this one. What if I’m no good at it? What if I can’t even be a normal person?”

“Hey.” Yuuri releases Viktor’s hand, only to tuck it under Viktor’s chin, tilting it up to face him. His thumb grazes Viktor’s cheek as he offers him a small smile. “Look, you’re going to fail. It’s an unavoidable part of life. But I’ll be there to catch you when you do.” It won’t be a fairytale. It will be complicated - messy, imperfect. Yuuri already knows that much. But love is, after all, about compromise.

A soft, weary smile dawns on Viktor’s face. “Okay.” He closes the distance between the two of them, pressing his forehead to Yuuri’s once again. A quiet laugh breaks free. The smile broadens. “Okay.” He places a swift kiss to Yuuri’s temple before pulling back, blue eyes shining, drawing out Yuuri’s grin. Yuuri can hardly believe he’s living this moment, half-convinced he’ll wake up in a reality where Viktor’s said ‘no,’ or where the portal’s still closed, or worst of all, where the portal never existed at all.

But then Viktor squeezes his hands and there, _there_ is his anchor. Yuuri laughs, unbridled and jubilant. “Should we go home, then?”

Viktor beams. “I don’t think I’d like anything more.”

They walk hand-in-hand back toward Yurio, who’s waiting for them with an impassive expression. Yuuri braces himself for the lecture, for the inevitable acrid remarks, but before Yurio can issue any, Viktor’s pulled him into a tight embrace. His voice is quiet, not meant for anyone else to hear: “You’re going to make a great king.”

Yurio, to his credit, doesn’t immediately push his older cousin off. He rolls his eyes, though it looks more performative than anything else. “About time you figured that out.”

They trudge through the snow together, Yurio leading the way as he was always bound to do. Yuuri and Viktor trail behind him, their hands finding each other once again. The snow has slowed and the wind tempered, but that hasn’t stopped Viktor from offering Yuuri his coat more than once. But Yuuri’s buzzing with so much warmth, he’s almost surprised everyone around him can’t feel it.

It’s only when Viktor draws in a sharp breath that the halcyon scene breaks. His back stiffens, his eyes going wide with dread. “Yakov is going to be _furious._ ”

Yuuri recalls Yakov’s reddened face and frantic hair-pulling back in the waiting room. There’s no sense in arguing with Viktor on this one. Even trying to comfort him seems like it would be a false promise. Ahead of them, Yurio opines, “Honestly, the past fifteen years should have prepared Yakov for this.”

Viktor draws his free hand to his face, dragging it down his cheek. “I waited until the day of the _coronation._ ”

Yuuri nods. “You did.”

“They’re going to think I dropped everything for you.”

“Probably.”

Viktor’s shoulders slump as he groans, “This is going to be awful.”

“It will be,” Yuuri concurs. Why bother lying? There’s bound to be an uproar. The entire palace will be fielding off distraught citizens, furious dignitaries, self-serving inquiries from foreign monarchs. Yuuri presses his side into Viktor’s. “But you’ll help them through it. And I’ll be here to help _you_ through it.”

Viktor’s gaze turns to Yuuri, uncertain but not quite as lost as before. “Even when I make the announcement to the court?”

Yuuri grants him a soft smile. “Always.”

There’s a soft squeeze on Yuuri’s hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri catches Viktor’s faint smile. There’s no denying that the road ahead of them will be difficult, far from perfect, if there ever were such a thing. But all the same, it is the road they have chosen to take together.

The waiting room door draws into view. The steady murmur of voices grows louder. The future waits, simultaneously looming and bright and _loud_ , and Yuuri is excited for every last second of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viktor, a little while later: "I declare...abdication!"  
> Yurio: "You can't just say the word 'abdication' and expect anything to happen."  
> Viktor: "I didn't say it. I declared it."
> 
> OPE. You guys definitely had a lot of really interesting theories going on in the comments about how Yuuri and Viktor were going to work this out. I don't think anyone guessed this solution, but it's been so much fun reading your predictions for the story!
> 
> Thanks so much for all your comments (and kudos!) along the way. :) Next up: the epilogue!


	12. Land of All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Land of All](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZaADPWRoaDE)

“I can’t believe you decided to go swimming _two hours_ before we needed to leave.” Yuuri reaches out his hand, taming a few stray silver hairs as Viktor beams down at him. In fact, he absolutely can believe that Viktor chose to go romping along the beach at such an inopportune time. Yuuri’s more surprised that Viktor somehow roped him into it, too. Yuuri self-consciously draws his hand back to his own hair, hoping his hasty shower was enough to rinse out the grime. Today is _not_ the day for them to smell of salt and seaweed.

“But it’s the perfect day for it!” Viktor’s eyes are shining, his entire being awash in the summer sunlight streaming through the window of Yuuri’s childhood bedroom. “I’ve been waiting _months_ for this!”

He’s _hardly_ been waiting, Yuuri nearly points out, recalling the multitude of times Viktor’s dipped his toes in the icy water, only to bound out shrieking a couple seconds later. But then a phone dings on the dresser and Viktor says, “Oh. Could you hand me Chris?” Yuuri grabs Viktor’s cellphone and passes it along.

He leans in as Viktor unlocks his phone and a new video from Yuuko pops up. As Viktor starts the video, a raucous chorus of children’s laughter bursts from the phone, and some ten tiny skaters swizzle in a line across the screen. Viktor brings a trembling hand to his mouth.

Yuuri’s eyes widen. “Are you...crying?”

“No.” Viktor wipes at his eyes with the ball of his palm. He replays the video, holding it closer to Yuuri in case he’d somehow missed it the first time, and effervesces, “Look at them! A couple weeks ago, I could barely convince some of them to step on the ice! And now... _swizzles!_ ” He closes the video and places the phone back on the dresser. “I’m just so proud of them! They’re all getting extra free skate time when I get back.”

“Well, you’re a good teacher,” Yuuri says. “It’s no wonder they’ve made so much progress.” Among Viktor’s last group of students was a girl who had spent the first two classes balking at the ice, and the next three clinging to the boards. During their final class, she’d demonstrated for her favorite skating instructor her perfected bunny hop. Viktor had lavished her with praise, insisting that she return to her classmates to show off her trick; Yuuri had watched through the boards as the girl skated away and his fiancé, for a brief moment, shed tears of unabashed joy.

“I just can’t believe I had to miss class this week,” Viktor says. “Yuuko’s a good teacher, though. At least I know they’re in good hands.” He takes a step toward the closet door. “Well, anyway, we should probably get moving. There are a lot of people who will be angry at us if we’re late today.”

Yuuri nods, though not before awkwardly readjusting his tie. “Do I look okay?” he asks, still worried that he’ll find a strand of seaweed dangling from his outfit sometime tonight.

Viktor winks at him. “Dashing as always.”

It’s a typical response from Viktor, and even after three years, Yuuri can’t help blushing at it. _Typical._ “Come on,” he says, taking Viktor’s hand as he opens the closet door, revealing the blurry space waiting at the back wall - the portal, present and thriving as ever. “Let’s get there on time and surprise everybody.”

They push the armoire doors open, only to be met by a narrowed pair of green eyes, winged with black liner. They widen slightly. “You’re not late,” Chris marvels.

“Why would you expect us to be late?” Viktor asks, shutting the doors behind them. “Also, why are you here? Did Yurio make you stand sentry again?”

“Of course he did.” Chris gestures for them to follow him into the hall. Yuuri’s eyes wander as they pass through Viktor’s room; it looks much the same as it always has--still opulent in material things and nearly devoid of sentiment--but that’s hardly a surprise, considering it’s barely been lived in over the past three years. The card Yuuri had drawn for Viktor’s birthday, once carefully fastened to the wall, has found a new home in their shared bedroom. The absurdly large bust, to Yuuri’s great relief, remains in the palace.

Chris leads the two of them through the halls, as though they’d really needed an escort to find their way. They pass guards, attendants, and courtiers as they walk, all of whom are wise enough not to stare--Yuuri and Viktor are hardly strangers here, after all--but Yuuri swears he can still feel the familiar pressure of curious looks boring into his back. He reaches for Viktor’s hand and bumps knuckles with him instead, as though Viktor had been moving to do the same. He catches Viktor’s warm gaze, mirrors the small smile, and allows their fingers to naturally intertwine.

Yuuri hasn’t visited the Grand Hall in three years, still guilt-ridden, despite Viktor’s countless reassurances, over the events that had last transpired there. The furious whispering, followed by jeers and wails, still echo in his ears; the baleful, betrayed glares still loom over him, crushing and unyielding. Both Yakov and Yurio had advised Yuuri not to come to Viktor’s official announcement of abdication, warning him in detail of the reception he’d surely receive. But Yuuri had promised to stay by Viktor’s side, and so he had gone, and they’d borne the blame together.

There’s a squeeze on his hand as the guards part for them, swinging the Hall doors wide open. The Hall is only half-full, Viktor and Yuuri hardly the only dignitaries with a knack for arriving late, but Yuuri’s ears burn at the sudden attention all the same. But Viktor takes it in stride, and as he leads Yuuri down the aisle with a practiced, cheerful smile, Yuuri manages to fabricate one of his own. They stop near the opposite end of the Hall, just a few yards shy of the empty throne. Yuuri subconsciously tightens his grip on Viktor’s hand, but if Viktor notices, he doesn’t remark on it.

As Chris steps in beside them, Viktor asks, “Where are Mila and Georgi? Still in the waiting room?”

“Georgi probably is,” Chris confirms. “I’m guessing Mila’s occupying some quiet alcove with Princess Sara right now.”

The corner of Viktor’s mouth perks into a mischievous smile. “Really, now? That’s new.”

“Oh, _hardly._ ” Chris rolls his eyes. “This is what you get for staying away for so long.” When Viktor opens his mouth to protest, Chris cuts him off, “Coming for family dinners _doesn’t_ count, especially since Yakov’s always there. It’s impossible to have a fun conversation when he’s around. Oh, but speaking of Yakov…”

And so Chris fills them in on Yakov’s reconciliation with his ex-wife, Lilia, as they’ve prepared Yurio for the throne over the past three years, as well as all the other juicy gossip Yuuri and Viktor have missed in their absence. It’s not that they’ve really been _absent_ , though; they’ve returned for family dinners, for policy discussions, for public appearances when necessary. But this world’s not really _theirs_ anymore--though Yuuri’s not convinced it ever really was--and it’s moved on easily without them. But then, so have they.

The din of the crowd falls to a hush as an officiant, garbed in gaudy clothes even by palace standards, emerges from the anteroom. Trailing behind him are Yakov and Lilia, a tall woman with a sharp, imperious face, though she’s been cordial enough to Yuuri on the few occasions they’ve met. They take their places at the officiant’s side, looking stoic as they await the arrival of the final member of their party.

He strides in, back straight and chin lifted high. He’s grown a few inches in the past three years, though he’s still--much to his chagrin, Yuuri suspects--just shy of Viktor’s height. His hair, too, has lengthened into blond locks that reach his shoulders, and Yuuri’s been wise not to mention how it reminds him of Viktor’s old hair. As the newcomer reaches the center of the Hall, the officiant announces, “Prince Yuri of the Land of Ice and Snow!” As if anybody in the Hall might have any doubt as to who he is.

It hardly matters. In less than an hour, the title becomes obsolete; the ceremony concludes with vivacious cheers of, “Hurrah, King Yuri! Long may he reign!”

Yuuri doesn’t dare look, but he suspects Viktor may be crying again.

 

That evening, Yuuri and Viktor find themselves in the company of some hundred dignitaries - and, more importantly, some hundred dessert options. Yuuri piles his plate high, careful to avoid the royal snow cookies, and promises himself that he’ll work off the calories at home. Maybe. At least he’s not consuming any alcohol calories tonight; that’s something that should never happen again, least of all at a feast in Yurio’s honor.

He’s about to stuff his face with some doughy powdered pastry when Viktor leans over and says, “We should probably give Yurio his gift.” Yuuri gives his pastry a doleful look before setting it back down on his plate.

“Don’t worry,” Mila says from across the table, her arm draped around Sara’s shoulders. She winks. “I’ll keep an eye on it for you.”

Yuuri mutters his sincere thanks before following Viktor to the end of the dining hall, where Yurio rests on a dais, perfunctorily greeting every dignitary who stops by. At every available opportunity, he peels his attention back to some ongoing conversation with Otabek, who’s stationed at his side like a statue. Yurio acknowledges Yuuri and Viktor’s approach with narrowed eyes and a curt nod, which Yuuri suspects is the most genuine response any guest has garnered from Yurio tonight.

“Congratulations,” Viktor says. He stoops into a low bow, and Yurio’s eyes widen marginally. Viktor straightens, his eyes and smile both soft. “I’m very proud of you.”

It’s too genuine a display of emotion for Yurio to handle; he flushes a light shade of pink before rolling his eyes and muttering, “Yeah, okay.”

Yuuri holds back a laugh. “We brought you a present,” he says, motioning for Viktor to hand over the small, poorly gift-wrapped box. Yurio tears it apart, looking more akin to a child than a newly crowned king, and then freezes, his eyes glued to the inside of the box.

“It’s your very own cell phone,” Viktor chirps, his mouth stretched into a knowing grin. “We’ll charge it once a week at our house.” Yuuri had balked at the idea when Viktor had first suggested it; it was “wasteful,” he’d argued, and “impractical,” and “something Yakov’s going to hate us for forever.” But there was no denying it was the perfect gift for Yurio, and so for all Yuuri’s well-reasoned protests, he’d relented.

Yurio gapes up at them, clutching the phone like it’s some precious panacea. “Are you serious?” he asks, the words bursting out loud enough to catch Yakov’s attention. When Viktor nods, Yurio scrambles to turn on the phone. “Otabek, check this out!” He waves wildly, motioning for his friend to lean in. “Let me show you something! It’s called a selfie and it’s the coolest thing ever.”

With Yurio’s attention now focused squarely on the phone, Yuuri and Viktor slip away, leaving behind a line of dignitaries coughing increasingly loudly in a fruitless attempt to catch their king’s notice. Regardless of the events of three years ago, Yuuri fears he and Viktor may still have found a way to bring an end to the dynasty.

Yakov grabs hold of Viktor’s arm before they can slip away. “What did you give him?” he asks, casting a skeptical glance in Yurio’s direction. “Another foreign souvenir? I asked you not to bring any more of those here.”

Viktor wiggles his way out of Yakov’s grip. “It’s just a toy, of sorts,” he says, flashing Yakov a grin that Yuuri knows will only make things worse. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I always worry when it comes to you,” Yakov grumbles. “I don’t want Yuri getting distracted. He’s taking on a tremendous responsibility, and he’s borne it well so far, but-”

“But what? Yakov, if you’re concerned Yuri will turn out like me, I can assure you that he’d rather die first.” Viktor smirks as he lets his gaze drift toward the dais. Yurio has already pocketed the phone--though Yuuri suspects it’ll be drained of battery before the night is over--and resumed his conversations with his guests. “Trust him a little. He’s going to be a great king.”

They’re silent for a brief moment before Yakov says, his voice softer than Yuuri’s ever heard it, “You made the right choice, Viktor. Both for the kingdom and yourself.” Viktor shrugs a little, his gaze still peeled onto Yurio. Yakov adds, “Your parents would have been proud of you.”

It yanks Viktor’s attention back, his eyes wide and glassy as he regards Yakov. It’s a statement that’s bound to unleash a fury of warring feelings within Viktor; three years have eased their burden, but it will take much longer to unravel them entirely. For a moment, Yuuri isn’t sure how Viktor will respond - whether he’ll crush Yakov in a bruising embrace, or whether he’ll recoil and sink into his own turbulence. But Viktor surprises him, just as he always does, as he manages a courteous nod and a quiet, “Thank you, Yakov.”

“Come back for dinner sometime soon,” Yakov says as they start back to their seats. “Maybe next week, after all this chaos is over with.”

“Okay, Yakov!” Viktor calls, waving goodbye. “We’ll be sure to bring more gifts, too!”

The color drains from Yakov’s face. Yuuri squeezes on Viktor’s hand. “Why do you always have to do that to him?”

Viktor grins. “Do what?”

They resume their dinner with the same crowd as before, and Yuuri is eternally grateful to Mila as he finds his desserts untouched. Chris watches dejectedly as Yuuri stuffs his face with pastries. “I hope you’re happy,” he says, resting his chin in his palm. “She swatted my hand away when I tried to take one. As if you would have noticed.”

“Of course I would have noticed,” Yuuri says, flashing a powdery grin at Mila, who returns it with a wink. “I don’t get to enjoy these pastries nearly as often as the rest of you. I always miss them when we’re, um…” He pauses as he makes eye contact with Sara across the table, and amends, “...away.”

It’s not enough to satisfy the ever-curious princess. She cocks her head, her eyes large and deceptively innocent as she asks, “If you don’t mind me asking, Yuuri, where _do_ you come from? No one here has ever bothered to tell me.” She ignores the sour look she earns from Mila.

Yuuri’s voice stutters as he tries to come up with a reasonable lie. He and Viktor had concocted one, back during the months following the abdication, but it’s been so long since he’s had to use it. Where was he supposed to be from? The Land of Many Seas? No, that already exists in this world. The Land of Sun and Snow? Yuuri clears his throat. “I-”

“He’s from the Land of All,” Viktor cuts in. “It has snow, and summer, and an ocean and mountains, and everything anyone could ever want.”

Sara’s eyes grow wide with awe. “Wow,” she breathes out. “Is that where you live now?”

Viktor nods. “Of course,” he says, squeezing Yuuri’s hand beneath the table. “Like I said, it has everything I could ever want.”

 

“I didn’t know that was what you called it,” Yuuri says later, as they lay sprawled on top of the bedsheets. The little electric fan buzzing in the corner is doing little to negate the sticky June heat. Maybe they should have gone for another dip in the ocean, or at least taken a quick shower, but after all the food and excitement of the evening, it took all the energy they had just to meander home, undress, and crawl into bed.

Yuuri raises his arm and presses it against the wall behind them, relishing the touch of the cool surface. On the opposite wall hangs his framed college degree, only a year too late. Or as Viktor put it, just in time for him to attend Yuuri’s graduation. Tacked just below the degree is Viktor’s hand-drawn birthday card, which Viktor has also sworn to someday have framed.

“That’s what I’ve always called it,” Viktor responds. His voice is slightly muffled from a mix of fatigue and alcohol, though Yuuri had been careful to cut him off before he could turn the banquet into a rave. Yuuri, for his part, had kept a safe distance from any alcoholic drinks; no one, least of all his fiancé, has been kind enough to let him forget his antics at Chris’ wedding last year. It had taken nearly three months for the palace maids to cease blushing and averting their eyes every time Yuuri passed them in the corridors.

In some ways, it’s a relief that they won’t have to return to the Land of Ice and Snow as often as they used to, now that preparations for Yurio’s coronation are finished. But all the same, Yuuri ruminates, the images and sounds of the banquet still fresh in his mind, Viktor had looked so happy and natural there, surrounded by his friends and family. Of all the decisions they’d had to make three years ago, living here had been one of the easiest ones, barely even a compromise; but Yuuri’s mind is inclined to wander, on occasion, toward questions and worries of whether he’d taken too much and given too little.

Viktor shifts beside him, somehow rotating himself beneath Makkachin’s massive weight on the foot of their bed. She emits a soft whine of protest until he settles again, his head propped on his hand as he faces Yuuri. “I’m happy,” he says, as if he can read Yuuri’s worried thoughts. Perhaps it’s a skill he’s honed over the past three years, or even the past two decades. He reaches his hand midway between them, curling all his fingers into a fist save for his pinky, which he extends toward Yuuri. “I promise.”

Yuuri meets him there, curling his pinky around Viktor’s as a soft smile dawns on his face. As Viktor uses his free hand to trace the gold band on Yuuri’s ring finger--a promise made in winter, destined for late summer, once all the chaos of the coronation has simmered down--Yuuri pushes himself onto his elbow and leans in, delivering a kiss to the corner of Viktor’s mouth. When he pulls away, Viktor looks petulant; then the alcohol presumably takes charge, and he propels himself forward to properly kiss Yuuri - a gesture full of romantic potential, except Viktor misses his mark, instead knocking his head against Yuuri’s. They fall back onto the pillows, laughing in unison.

“You’re an idiot,” Yuuri says, still grinning as he rubs at the dull pain in his forehead. He stops as Viktor cups his cheek, tilting his head to face him, and presses their foreheads together - gentler this time. The woozy aftershocks of laughter still titter through both of them, drawn out by exhaustion. Yuuri fails to disguise a yawn, but Viktor’s eyelids are already beginning to flutter shut; Yuuri’s own feel heavy as well, drifting closed as sleep beckons him. He melts into it, eager as always at the prospect of waking up tomorrow and finding Viktor there.

 

Katsuki Yuuri doesn’t believe in happy endings. He did once, back when fables and fairy tales and fantasy seemed preferable to his own prosaic reality.

But now he knows better.

Now Katsuki Yuuri, age 26, falls asleep beside his life and love, content in his knowledge that the happiest stories never truly end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the least realistic part of this story is just how absurdly old Makkachin is in this epilogue, but I'm okay with that.
> 
> Aaaand that's all, folks! I've been writing fanfic since I was eleven years old and this is the first time I've finished a multi-chapter fic, so that's pretty cool. And it's in no small part due to all of you, who read and left kudos, so thank you for that! And a very special thanks to those of you who took the time to comment - it was honestly such a joy to read every single one of your comments. :)
> 
> So thanks for sticking with this story to the end! It was a lot of fun to write. I certainly hope it was fun to read. :)


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